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^^WATER COLORS 

SOUTH OF FRANCE 



55 



I918-I919 



BY 



SUSAN FARLEY NICHOLs) /AM-^rl 




Boston 

Th e Four Seas Company 

1921 



Copyright, 1^21, by 
The Four Seas Company 









THE FOUR SEAS PRESS 
BOSTON, MASS., U. S. A. 



'"fS 23 192/ 



X 



To My Father and Mother 

WHOSE INTEREST AND SYMPATHY FORM A 
VITAL PART OF THEIR CHILDREN S' EXPERIENCE 



NOTE OF ACKNOWLEDGEMENT 

My thanks in the preparation of this book are due to 
Madame Leopold Jammes, Directrice of Hopital Auxi- 
liare 203 at Cannes, France, for kind permission to use the 
hospital photographs. Thanks are also due to my co- 
workers in hospital, Infirmiere et Directrice de Service 
Cecilia Buckley of Genoa, Italy, for the Tahitian letters 
and translations, and to Mrs. Jesse Benedict Carter of 
Rome, for the use of her Library Notes. 

Gratitude is especially owing to Miss Anna D. Slocum 
of Boston, for her stimulating encouragement through- 
out the work. 

S. F. N. 



CONTENTS 



PART I. 

IN HOSPITAL AND TOWN 

Page 

From a Hospital Window . . . . . . . ii 

Night Arrival 13 

Fleury and Ribot 15 

Dejeuner 22 

L'OuvROiR 33 

The Arrival 35 

Gardes de Nuit 38 

PoiLUS 39 

Les Momes .41 

The Toy Soldier 42 

Jour de Fete . . . . 45 

The Postman Priest 49 

At Mass 50 

Days Off 52 

After the Storm 54 

Au Revoir 55 

Au Marche 60 

The Road to Nice 65 

The Announcement (ij 

Le Jour de Gloire 68 

L'ouvRiER 71 



CONTENTS 

PART 11. 

FRENCH COLONIALS 

A New Language 79 

The Bull-Fighter 81 

Friend to the Cannibal 83 

Tahitians 86 

MooHONo's Journey 94 

The Fran co-Tahiti an ........ loi 

The Tahitians Study English iii 

Threads Joined and Broken 114 

PoMA Tea — (Light and Shadow) 123 

The Tahitians Say Farewell 126 

Tahitian Letters 130 

Their Lives Are Like the Leaves 136 

PART III. 

FOYER-BIBLIOTHEQUE 

Au Foyer 143 

The Poilu's Books 163 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



Tahiti, the Beautiful Frontispiece 

The Harbor, Cannes, France ...... ii 

PoiLus 40 

Cannes, Le Port 52 

Le Marche aux Fleurs 60 

A Typical Tahitian Soldier 86 

"Ils Pensent en Leur Pays" 92 

How They Bathe in Tahiti 102 

The Primitive Life of the Island 108 

Tahitian Girl no 

In Tahiti 118 

The Family of a Tahitian Soldier .... 134 

A Hospital Group . 143 

Hospital Group . 146 




THE HARBOR, CANNES, FRANCE 



FROM A HOSPITAL WINDOW 

Over the red- tiled roofs of the old Riviera town I look 
north to the gray-green hills and south to the open sea. 
In the early morning I watch long, dark fishing boats 
put out to a broad, gloomy sea and the gray horizon. 
Gray, it lightens gradually, with softer, silver lights far 
out over the water, to where lies Corsica, a fairy island 
of palest amethyst. The mirage-like vision deepens in 
color, is touched with gold by the rising sun and sinks, 
lost island of the dawn, into an opalescent sea, a sea of 
softest shimmering blue. Later in the day the colors 
change to greens and blues unfathomable, while sails 
appear on the surface, white and flaming red. Oh! to 
embark on one of those magic red-sailed boats and go 
wherever the soft Mediterranean breeze might take one, 
a veritable adventure on a sea of color over the rippling, 
mingling blues and greens, spreading away to shades 
unnamable. 

Even as I have watched from a hospital window the 
boats come and go, and the light and shade on the water, 
I have looked out on another world, subtler, more 
mysterious, yet picturesque, colorful, an intimate world 
of romance, of courage and of pain. I have seen, in 
light and shadow, glimpses of the lives of invalided sol- 
diers from many lands, meeting, coming and going in our 
hospital wards. There have come here to the sunny 
shores of their own flowering country the wandering 
poilus of France, boys of the gray northern cities and of 
the smallest secluded hamlet of Provence. Wondering 

II 



12 "WATER COLORS" 

that they had come so far, they met soldiers from count- 
ries which He beyond the horizon even of that gleaming 
sea : men from low-lying Africa, the East, from the smal- 
lest islands across two oceans, far to the south and west, 
even from the Island of Tahiti, with tropic shores washed 
by the most distant waters. Like that little boat which I 
have watched at evening furl dark red sails below my 
window, the day's voyage done, so each wanderer may 
have come from some rare adventure, to rest here for 
a stage on his journey to what other shore, the farthest 
one, perhaps ? I have not been able to follow their lives 
for long; I have known little of them indeed; and yet 
there have been revealing glimpses, depths marvelous 
even as the deepest colors of the sea, or just a surface 
gleam here and there. I have drawn only what I have 
seen, a flash of sunlight, a gleam of color, a moving 
shadow, — such glimpses as I have had of the vast, the 
gray-blue water, from the tiniest window under the eaves. 



NIGHT ARRIVAL 

How odd that in this starHt garden I awaited beings from 
a muddy battle-field only some few hundred miles away, 
— from another world it seemed! Here was a perfect 
southern night; the stars brilliant overhead, the branching 
palms barely stirred by a warm and fragrant breeze, the 
air clear, almost like some dehcious Hquid after the hos- 
pital staleness. How poignantly one felt the nearness 
of pain to beauty. 

There were gathered about the entrance door to receive 
them the night watchman, calm and stoical, holding his 
lantern above his head, infirmieres in whisking veils 
whispering excitedly, some of the stronger patients 
hastily awakened to help us carry in the stretchers, and 
sleepily alert in pink pajamas. Down the road there 
loomed into view gray shapes in the night, and the Red 
Cross wagons halted at our door, undeniable realities. 
The stretchers were set down in the hall- way; white, 
drawn faces and wistful eyes looked out above the 
blanket or overcoat thrown over the tired figure. They 
were arrived: the dazed joyless eyes seemed to ask, 
"where?" 

In broken syllables we learned of the exhausting jour- 
ney of days and nights from the dressing station behind 
the lines; packed on hard benches, johed and side- 
tracked. Some were suffering acutely from the wound 
gone too long without attention, others merely wished 
for water. They drank greedily with parched throats. 

13 



14 "WATER COLORS" 

The heavy boots were pulled off, the ill- smelling coat 
removed and the last man lifted into bed. 

"Where am I ?" asked one tired poilu dreamily. 

"You are on your Riviera," I told him. 

"I never expected to come so far! Well, who can 
tell?" — ^with a sigh, "c'est la guerre! but yes, it is fort 
joUr 

I followed his eyes to the window, it was already day- 
light, gray and soft. In the harbor below two long 
fishing-boats, their full sails rounding darkly against a 
faintly crimson sky, glided out past the light-house. 

The boy's eyes on the hospital pillow closed in sleep. 



FLEURY AND RIBOT 

I FIRST met Fleury in the pantry; a square, dark little 
man in shiny black waistcoat and spare white apron, his 
shirt-sleeves rolled up from the white, blue-veined arms, 
his head bent over the long, old hands which held the 
cigarette he was lighting. 

He flicked the cigarette one side and faced me squarely. 
Even without his cigarette the head bent forward 
from the neck. His face was white and wrinkled 
with a worn hollow on each cheek. The glance, which 
seemed naturally downward, appeared to follow up from 
the bloodshot eyes, and to look me all over critically. 

"Where have you come from. Mademoiselle?" 

"America." 

Suddenly he was all friendly attention, breathy, ef- 
fusive : 

"All that way ! and I from Algeria — ^but you have never 
worked in a hospital before, what?" and he squinted 
meaningly. 

"Well, never have I either, I am an artist, as you 
might say, I am not an infirmier, although you might 
think it — no. Mademoiselle, you I can tell, I am an artist 
who has given up all to care for our blesses." 

With a grandiloquent air Fleury bent back again over 
his dish-washing to gaze sentimentally into the soapy 
water — and then to hold each dish above his head, 
and watch the water drip off the rim with interested 
attention. When it was done he wiped the long, brown, 

IS 



i6 "WATER COLORS" 

ringed hands on his apron and went on talking more to 
himself than to me : 

"Yes, why I work in a hospital I sometimes wonder, 
since I am an artist really — an artist of gravestones, — 
vous savezf I have earned a great deal of money, — but 
here ! well, here I work for love, yes, all for love, — and 
how I have worked from the first day of the war ! . . . 
and sometimes I see no end, — no end — " With a sigh 
Fleury sank down to one side of his stool, while he pulled 
his matches from a mysterious pocket. 

As you come to know the hospital, you come to know 
Fleury : irregular, effusive, omnipresent. 

Each morning it is his pleasure to walk through the 
long wards and halls with a pan of smoking hot coffee; 
he wears a fresh apron, and walks in sprightly fashion, 
swaying forward on the balls of his feet. With his 
cheery, challenging: "Bonjour, Messieurs," he passes 
from one bedside to another. It is Fleury who knows all 
the men, — everyone personally; disgraceful Remy has 
gambled away his all at la manille, and has nothing to 
send to his wife and little ones. Fleury surreptitiously 
slips him a ten franc note from his shabby old leather 
purse. Tahitian Tahiriura, unused to wine, comes in 
from his first Sunday out with the Frenchmen: 

"Vous savez il a quelque chose." 

Only Fleury has a look of quick compassion as he 
shakes his head, tenderly reminiscent. 

For the boy who comes to fetch away the dishes which 
are left, Fleury has saved an extra dish, or portion. 
"Never mind where I have it from, — she has need of it, 
the poor widow Malaguti." The little girls who accom- 
pany their mother, the scrub- woman, to the hospital, are 



FLEURY AND RIBOT 17 

his especial favorites; Fleury sets down the coffee to 
shake hands with them, and ask for their healths, and, 
"How are the school tasks going?" 

All that has nothing to do with routine appeals to 
Fleury's imagination. 

Are there pots and trays and kettles which have never 
been painted or numbered, or renovated before, Fleury 
is the one to attend to it now. 

Madame L'Infirmiere has made the discovery of bed- 
bugs in one of the salles. She is horrified, we are all 
horrified, effrayees, even. Only Fleury smiles, resigned 
and curious. He has a new and effective method for 
their eradication, — just let him try it. There is a new 
room to be put in order, it is not necessary to call carpen- 
ters or experts, — "I, Fleury, will attend to it." 

As he works and potters, putting a new number on a 
tag, fastening a loose bit of wall paper, or stirring an odd 
mixture of paint, Fleury continues to talk; sometimes 
more to himself than to others : 

"Now I will tell you all about my past and just what 
brought me here to France. Long ago my parents 
wished me to marry — c'etait une femme d'Algerie — ^but 
I never did love her, and I ran away ; — since then I have 
traveled — " As always at a crisis in his narrative, his 
thoughts seem to spread away inarticulately into a strange 
sort of mumbling. Soon he begins again : "And then too, 
I have earned a great deal of money, a very great deal in 
my day, when I worked at my metier, when I was an 
artist — now how much do you think. Mademoiselle, just 
guess ?" 

. . . "Yes, it is ridiculous, here I cannot even keep 
what I earn, — ^but must give it all to that woman to save 



i8 "WATER COLORS" 

for me ; why, I do not know. . . . She, with her author- 
ity, it seems, has an odd sort of hold on me, that practical 
English woman. . . . Ah, no, why should a talented 
man like me be slaving his life away for no pay, and in 
a hospital like this one, . . . after all, I think it is for a 
woman, that sainted one who keeps my money. . . . just 
for her. . . . Now do you know, all that I eat much of 
the time *s just my piece of bread, and a little plain cheese 
with it. I am gourmand, I tell you, or else I will have 
nothing. ... If that is the bell for my soup I cannot 
go; what is this hospital food? I take no pleasure in 
eating." 

"But it is time to carry coffee to the wards." Even 
this does not appeal; Fleury goes on with his soliloquy: 
"Do you not realize I am an artist? I cannot be 
interrupted in my work." The neat but trembling fingers 
continue slowly, while the shabby infirmier Ribot washes 
the dishes, and may even carry the tureen for to-day. 

Is there any sort of entertainment in the hospital, Fleury 
has his part in the programme. In a shiny black coat, 
his hair sleek and oily, a very solemn Fleury comes to the 
edge of the platform, bows forward from the waist down, 
and then sits on his carefully placed stool, while he plays 
seriously, always the same odd little tune, on his two 
straight metal pipes, and another one on his pipe of clay. 
The audience may smile and Fleury smiles too, to him- 
self, in his own superior manner. To his audience he 
bows again stiffly when his performance is done, backing 
down off the platform. 

Each Sunday in the same black coat too short in the 
sleeves, and wearing a shiny yellow straw hat, Fleury 



FLEURY AND RIBOT 19 

goes out to "Passer la journee chez des amis h la 
campagne." 

From this expedition to friends in the country Fleury 
returns at night with an odd variety of stories. One 
Sunday it was that the American band came to town and 
Fleury had been listening to them all the afternoon as 
they played on the Place. That evening it is impossible 
for him to return to his regular work; he is seated un- 
steadily on his old stool in the pantry, half confused, 
half delighted: 

''Yes, it was this way. Mademoiselle; merveilleux, 
merveilleux! Never have I, an artist and a musician, 
seen anything like it: there was a man who played all 
things at once, with his mouth so, with his hands so, and 
even with his feet," and Fleury leans first this way, now 
that, clapping with his hands, drumming on the floor with 
his stick, stamping his feet in unison ; "now listen— never 
mind the soup—" and Ribot may carry up the dishes. 

At regular intervals of time there is a day when the 
whole world appears "mechant" to Fleury. He shakes 
his head instead of nodding it. He talks more about his 
artistic ability; less about his "chers blesses." 

"The men are lazy, shameful " After all, it is 

ridiculous for him, Fleury, to be slaving for them, and 
for so little money too. 

"Who is it says I cannot keep what I have got? I 
will show them—" He asks the nurse for the money 
she has saved for him. 

"Now I need it, that is all !" 

He even quarrels with the shabby Ribot who usually 
IS before him aiding in the work: "le bon gargonr But 



20 "WATER COLORS" 

today he is ''bete, bete, bete, . . . allesT Roughly 
Fleury pushes him out of his way. 

"After all what are you, Ribot, but an ordinary farm- 
er's boy, while I, who work with you, — well, few realize 
what I am, — and then I really work, how I work, while 
you, lazy one, have a vacation every month to labor on 
your father's farm. Ah yes, if I had a father and a 
farm—" 

Fleury no longer gazes into the soapy water sentimen- 
tally, but deliberately, with conviction, as though he had 
but just discovered some great truth. 

"Je vais casser la cruche," he speaks with determination. 

Then, suddenly, he pauses in his work though the pan 
be still full of unwashed dishes. With temper he shakes 
his fingers free of the soapy water: 

"Mais cette fois ci, c'est trop !" 

Snatching the apron from his neck, and forgetful even 
of his straw hat left behind him on the chair, he lurches 
out of the room. 

One evening Fleury returns to wander singing through 

the entries or to carol strange tunes from his own little 

attic window: all his old grudges are forgotten, and the 

moon and Fleury's love for the world may wax again 

together. 

****** 

And there he is back again on his old stool in the 
pantry quiet and impersonal, rolling a new supply of 
cigarettes : 

"Yes, I have been a la caravane," he explains un- 
abashed, in an off-hand manner. 

When Fleury goes "a la caravane** we begin to take 



FLEURY AND RIBOT 21 

more note of the shabby Ribot. But Ribot merely shrugs 
his shoulders wearily, or slowly winks. With bent 
shoulders, and broad brown arms, Ribot goes about his 
work as usual; slow, untidy, reliable. 

To Fleury, one suggests; Ribot, some command, and 
yet: "because you do not order me around as the others 
do — and because you work hard yourself, I will do any- 
thing I can for you." 

So Ribot is usually ahead of us to ,carry a tray or to lift 
a kettle : ^ 

"Laissez, laissez." 

He washes dishes steadily, laying each flat on the board 
when it is done: Voila!" 

Much of his talk is in monosyllables, and in an even flat 
voice. 

Only when he tells you about his Httle girls, ''les petites, 
les orphelines," there is something like a gleam in his 
green eyes. "The two little ones come from their orphan- 
age to take dinner with me on Sunday, you will say 
bonjour to them, what?" 

On Sunday, Ribot brings them in proudly to see us: 
Suzette on one hand, Linette on the other. When he 
walks out with them we hardly know him in full uni- 
form; his cap is pulled straight down over the faded 
brush of light hair in front, and he wears his tight but- 
toned coat with a band of black crepe on one sleeve : 

''Pour la mere," he will tell you in his matter of fact 
monosyllables. Now I seem to detect a gleam of imagin- 
ation in the shabby reliable Ribot, for in his little town, 
and even here, whispering gossip has it that la mere 
ran away and left les orphelines when Ribot was at the 
front. 



DEJEUNER 

In fresh white and rusthng veils the infirmieres enter 
hurriedly to an informal breakfast table, sparingly set 
with cups and spoons and the cloth from yesterday. They 
are eager, refreshed, impatient : 

"Lydia, Lydia!" 

There is a dull thud on the heavy swinging door into 
the pantry, and a misshapen little woman comes in, both 
hands occupied with a tray on which is a tall urn of 
coffee and a huge pitcher of steaming milk. I sometimes 
wonder whether it is from carrying trays twice too heavy 
for her that Lydia's figure is quite twisted out of shape. 
Her head is set low between the squarely raised shoulders, 
the figure above the waist bent backward in too tight a 
bodice. And she walks on firmly planted heels, with the 
untidy skirt too long behind, too short in front, and the 
square-toed shoes turned up as though with kicking open 
heavy doors. With a loud sigh Lydia places her tray on the 
side-table, and then, with a nasal, "B'jour, M'dames," 
stumps out again. 

Mademoiselle helps herself to coffee from the urn and 
then to milk, — just half a cup, each one's portion; she 
pours carefully, as though measuring medicine: 

"You see? It is exact!" 

Monsieur, le Pharmacien, fills his cup less nicely: but 
what does it matter if Madame, looking over his shoulder, 
discovers it to be three-quarters full, — "It is well under- 
stood, after all he is a man, — mobilise." 

And then, even, if he has not enough he may call for 

22 



DEJEUNER 23 

Lydia, and she will come in and replenish his cup with a 
sly look. 

"Maintenant" Monsieur spreads the morning's Journal 
before him as he goes on to sip his coffee and to lift thin 
slices of toast, daintily, between broad fingers. 

The elderly English lady sits a little sadly at our infor- 
mal table, — "I've just the bread I've over from yesterday 
— no, I declare I could never fancy this Continental break- 
fast, and in these times especially, — still I shall have my 
tea after," she shakes her head at Monsieur le Pharma- 
cien's complacent appetite, "and how is it you find the 
place, Monsieur, to toast your bread in the morning?" 

"Mademoiselle, if you will permit me to say so, I find 
that you English are ever too thorough, with such a 
capacity to endure ! You have your tea, as you say, — but 
for the rest, — Mon Dieu! Now for toast in the morning, 
par exemple, — ^you can always find just a little room, I 
should think, beside the pots of our blesses?" 

"Never for my own needs. Monsieur! Besides, I 
should not have the time. All I can do is just to dress in 
these odd clothes, you see I'm not used to uniform, — " 

With a quick, inclusive glance at the indefinite lines of 
the elderly figure opposite, Monsieur would perhaps go 
on with his recommendations, were it not for the irresis- 
tible appeal of the rather large type in the Journal spread 
before him: 

Aha! — 'La Situation Militaire, . . . nous amelierons 
nos positions en plusieurs points', — " so he announces to 
a listening table. 

. . . "But do tell me how you make your veil fit so 
nicely, Mademoiselle," benignly uninterrupted, the gentle- 
voiced lady goes on : "Will you show me some time after 



24 "WATER COLORS" 

breakfast? Though I am an old woman, and my work 
doing the mending is so unimportant compared with 
all of yours, — still all anyone can do is just her own part 
in this world, — ^yet of course I know the uniform's im- 
portant, and I want to wear the shoes too, — ^but my feet 
aren't as strong as they used to be when I ran about all 
day among those factory people in the East End. I so 
often wish I could do more, but really, you see, as I was 
telling you, I am sent to the Riviera for my health. Still 
I find there are always little things I can do to help and 
especially for the men, poor things. I like to sit and 
talk to the poor boys in the long evenings. I feel some- 
times they like to see an old lady; at any rate, they will 
always laugh at my jokes, — I give them a little advice 
too now and then; it may remind them of their 
mothers perhaps. I have given them all copies of the 
Evangile, and then I tell them, 'remember always that 
God cares for you.' .... But you will tell me some time 
how you fix your veil so prettily, will you not, Mademoi- 
selle, — and then you are always so well starched too, — 
who is your hlanchisseusef* 

"Aha, ecoutez, Mesdames, — 'de notre cote nous avons 
reussi deux operations de detail, au nord de Faverolles 
nous avons avance notre ligne d'environ i^o metres de 
meme dans la region a I'ouest de Bassieres/ ..." Mon- 
sieur goes on, absorbed in his paper; and the advancing 
French lines, represented by his knife and spoon, are 
spread far over the table-cloth. 

"You were asking about the hlanchisseuse? It is 
Madeleine, the pretty girl with such red cheeks, roses in 
her hat ; you know she comes each alternate day with the 
baskets." 



DEJEUNER 25 

"That reminds me, — clean linen day, — with all the rest 
there is to do, those lists to prepare, — such a business/' 

"Ah, Miss, you are so thorough, — but why bother with 
lists — what do they mean, indeed? So long as the men 
have what they need, what is comfortable, — " 

"Little Madeleine grows prettier every day, don't you 
think so? I have often seen the men stop at her house 
when they are a la sortie on Sundays." 

"Just the same her mother should not allow her to run 
about the town as she does,— I hope she won't be sorry for 
it, — some day " 

After snatches at conversation, Mesdames les In- 
firmieres scatter from the table, one after the other, — 
each bearing the individual jar of marmalade or sugar 
and what remains of yesterday's portion of black bread 
carefully wrapped in a napkin. 

Only Monsieur le Pharmacien still sits over the half 
empty cup while his eyes follow the news in the paper 
spread before him : 

"Aha . . . 'Question du Sucre, qui trompe-t-on?' Are 
we not perhaps all deceived with these ridiculous rations ? 
. . , 'on park et on ecrit ahondamment sur les etranges 
retards dans la distribution du Sucre dont notre departe- 
ment est actuellement victime' . . . " What news 
he may read from his local Journal strikes very nearly to 
Monsieur's inner man, even as there are lines which 
have aroused the patriotic soul of the Frenchman at his 
meagre breakfast, so early in the morning. 

Shaking his head over his own pot of sugar which 
grows lower with every day, slowly sighing. Monsieur 
rises with an effort : 

"Allons! Au travail ..." 



26 "WATER COLORS" 

Later in the day, after hard work, we may settle in 
more leisurely fashion over tall glasses of red wine and 
dishes of steaming puree, to the business of dining. Now 
we are in our appointed places and quite en famille. 
Madame I'econome and the Doctor make their appearance 
among us for the first time; you will understand of 
course they have eaten earlier, but in their rooms. From 
their place at the head of our board as from a height, they 
smile to each of us now a leisurely Good-morning, a be- 
nign and special greeting, which is answered in more 
casual manner, as we slip to our places down the table. 
Madame handles her knife, fork and wine-glass with pre- 
cision, and overlooks the table critically, surveying from 
her eminence the dishes set before her. Lydia has placed 
a large tray covered with a napkin on the table, and 
watches, her head critically on one side, while we each 
help ourselves to a triangular piece of neatly cut bread. 
Every piece is exactly the size of every other, except for 
two twice as big for Monsieur le Pharmacien and the 
Doctor. 

Madame's naive wonderment renews itself over each 
day's black loaf : 

"But what do you think of the bread to-day? Blacker 
than yesterday, what?" 

Monsieur le Docteur at her elbow dips his piece rumin- 
atively in his wine. Mademoiselle, her dainty nose 
ever so slightly raised, spreads hers thick with fresh but- 
ter. M. le Pharmacien, always diplomatically subservient 
to Madame's conversational lead, holds his piece to the 
light critically before adventuring further : 

"Too much bran. I shall go later to the town and 
complain to the baker." 



DEJEUNER 27 

''Ah, please do," says Madame. "I am sure I cannot 
eat such a heavy loaf and even the poor blesses will find 
it difficult with their soup. Is it not strange, really, what 
sort of things we will speak of now, just bread, and what 
we eat! While formerly we discussed people everyone 
knew, far more interesting, but then everyone at one 
table knew everyone else. But what is this you bring us 
to-day, Lydia ? Ugh, these heavy dishes ! My son, will 
not you make a complaint to the kitchen ? I declare I am 
afraid of the cook, but who can tell him as well as your- 
self, mobilise and a doctor, that beans and beans and 
ever beans again, — Ah well, perhaps it is not we who are 
used to better things should complain, but think, at least, 
of your malades!" 

Monsieur le Docteur, with long black beard and eye- 
glasses, will listen respectfully, only turning from his 
mother now and then to address a simple and shy remark 
to the new little bride who lives under the same roof with 
the rest of us. She is a shy little person, conspicuously 
without efficiency or hospital uniform, with uncovered 
hair and low-cut frocks : 

"You will need your large hat when you go for your 
walk, today, ma cherie, quelle chaleur! And would you 
perhaps like to take Maman's little dog for his walk? 
He is always gentle and good." 

On Madame's right our Pharmacien is increasingly 
sure of his opinion on Politics, the Arts and sentiments 
as the meal advances. He addresses all who will listen, 
but more particularly the half-Italian lady on his right. 
"Have you seen the Journal to-day, and what do you think 
of this fellow d'Annunzio?" 



28 "WATER COLORS" 

"But, Monsieur, how can you ask? Is it not magni- 
ficent? Indeed I am proud of the chivalry of Italy!" 

"I ask pardon. Mademoiselle, but you hardly under- 
stand. You Italians are noble, generous, but children, 
children. Bah, you do not know, you have not suffered 
as we in this country. To drop notes on Vienna after 
they had bombed Venice ? Foolishness, childish — " 

He spread out his hands in inarticulate vehemence. The 
half -Italian beside him had turned to him flushing, proud, 
but not hurt : 

"I fear it is you who cannot understand, Monsieur." 

Many pairs of eyes at our table seem to look at him 
questioningly, as though from a height. 

Monsieur has succeeded in burying all of his face, ex- 
cept for the gray beard, behind his raised wine-glass. 

"The poet, d'Annunzio, is a great man surely," he be- 
gins in a tone of soothing compromise, "ce sont les mots, 
les mots qui nous enivrent nous Frangais." 

But his immediate neighbor has turned from him, 
more interested in practical matters: English, Canadian, 
American, we converse in temperate language, are only 
reasonably divided in opinion, stoical over the lack of po- 
tatoes, the beans, the eternally reappearing puree. 

But 

"Que m'importe que tu sois sage? 
Sois belle et sois triste!" 

still it is the voice of Monsieur le Pharmacien quoting 
now to pretty Mademoiselle. Her seat is removed from 
his, of course, where she sits with other young French 
girls and the elderly Comtesse de M. 



DEJEUNER 29 

She lifts a protesting hand. "Ah, Baudelaire! that 
man! pfui, his Fleurs du Mai! He is not to my liking, 
Monsieur. Love ..." her voice becomes languid. The 
Pharmacien bends to hear. 

"Love," continues Mademoiselle, "to my thinking is ex- 
quisite, like music, like water lapping. You know 
Lamartine's Lacf" 

The Pharmacien bows deferentially to her choice. 

"Aimons done, aimons done! de I'heure fugitive, 
Hatons — nous, . . . . " 

"Ah, no, not those lines are most melodious, but these, 
Monsieur, listen: 

"Ou Tamour a longs flots nous verse le bonheur," . . 

Between and around them the conversation ebbs and 
flows continuous in solo and crescendo chorus. 

"How did the night pass, Madame de M.?" 

"Oh, everything very calm now, — I had good oppor- 
tunity to read. Last night I was reading Apres la Morte, 
mystique, interesting." 

Madame ITnfirmiere militaire, with white hair and 
quick, nervous movements, on leave from her front line 
hospital, shivers nervously. 

"Brrrrrrrrh, — I could not read such a book these quiet 
nights in the country. Really I find the nights here too 
quiet to sleep, not enough to do in the daytime to get really 
tired. Now au front, I tell you where I had 300 men, 
and all under my care, — there was a story and something 
to do! Or even in Paris during the air raids, — trh 



30 "WATER COLORS" 

sociable, — everyone meets to talk in the cellar, the chil- 
dren bring their toys, and when all is over it is just, 
bonsoir. Messieurs, Mesdames, and we may go to bed and 
sleep the better." 

Madame continues to eat and sprinkle salt on her food 
with nervous energy. 

"Ah, to have been in Paris!" the jeune fille from 
Provence, wistful-eyed, clasps her slender hands long- 
ingly. "But before the war Papa said I was too young 
and then ce n'etait pas le moment. But after the war, 
when traveling is easier, I shall really go some day." 

"Yet, Mademoiselle, of Nice we know you can tell us, — 
what are the latest modes, and did you have a gay time 
a la sortie?" 

To the general inquiry Mademoiselle giggles unrespon- 
sive, but nudging her nearest neighbor : 

"Gilberte, I found some designs, you would not believe 
it, come to my room with your embroidery frames 
and then I will show you, and such a hat, ravissant!" 

"Ecoute^, Mesdames," again the Pharmacien's heavier 
tones penetrate the lighter chatter, "there was an old man 
came over from Nice this morning wanting to earn a few 
francs, — and I, desiring to help the poor vieux, told him 
he might come to tell all our fortunes to-night — " 

"But, Monsieur, if the good God meant us to know the 
future . . . . " 

"Pooh, pooh, do not be concerned, dear Miss, it is only 
a joke, after all. This old man is no savant, I think for 
myself, he knows nothing. Still he will amuse the poor 
blesses; all young people wish to be told whom they will 
marry. So he will find for each some fiancee." 



DEJEUNER 31 

"Well, for sensible, religious people," her voice grows 
in conviction. 

"Why, yes, even for you — good Miss." 

"I, for one. Monsieur, shall not come to your seance." 

"Then I shall ask him, — 'Who, Monsieur, is that lady 
who is absent from our meeting, she whom we miss so 
especially?' And he will reply, 'Why, of course. Mon- 
sieur, that is simple, it is the good Miss who sits in her 
room with her Bible.' " 

"Monsieur!" 

Little old Madame N. with the rounded, soft lines, is 
listening to right and to left, her head on one side, then 
another: "Well, well, there now, — allow me to fill your 
glass. Monsieur, Miss — " so her pleasing, soft, voice, in- 
tervenes. "What? No wine? Your tea, you say. Beans 
then. No ? You eat nothing !" Passing plates and bot- 
tles to right and to left, the while she fussily chooses 
her own dainty forkfuls. 

"Yes, yes, the meat is assez bien to-day. Well, well, 
voila! I may save a little piece for my Miquette at 
home, I think. Such a good little cat, gray and soft, and 
comes trotting to meet me when I go home at night, and 
lays her gray cheek against mine. Well, excuses, ex- 
cuses. Messieurs, Mesdames, — but I must hurry away, — 
I promised a game of checkers to Pierre brave petit, and 
then there are the bands to wash, and still I must make 
the beds . . . while all the time Miquette is waiting for 
me, at home, — bonne petite chatte, — voila, — " still with 
softly purring words Madame has slipped some choice 
morsels into a mysterious bag under the table and hurries 
away. 



32 "WATER COLORS" 

Madame D. pushes back her chair followed by the son 
and daughter-in-law. 

"My son, have you dinner for Fifi, good little dog?" 

"Yes, Maman." 

Monsieur le Docteur heaps his emptied plate with the 
remaining spoonfuls on the serving dishes, and follows 
his wife and mother to the door. They turn to us bow- 
ing pleasantly, and in unison : 

"Bonsoir, Messieurs, Mesdames." 

Gradually the little company breaks up, — only Made- 
moiselle may linger over the last slow mouthfuls. The 
Pharmacien has risen to his feet and stands over her de- 
claiming soulfully, if not always accurately : 

"II pleut dans mon coeur 
Comme il pleut dans la ville — " 

"But ravissant" sighs Mademoiselle, "est elle brune, 
blonde ou rousse?" She quotes from their poet, — ^but it 
is more than this her eyes are asking. 

"Quelle est cette langueur — '* the Pharmacien in his 
turn inquires. And Lydia clatters away the dishes. 



UOUVROIR 

The hospital ouvroir is an aristocratic, cushioned little 
world apart, secluded behind heavy closed doors, well 
removed from hospital odors, the bustle of the arriving 
convoy of sick and wounded, the distressing knowledge 
of hospital detail. Here middle-aged ladies work in spot- 
less, correct uniforms and unsoiled hands. They would 
seem to have brought with them the plush furniture, the 
silk hangings, the heavy rug from their own little salons 
at home. As they sit, uninterrupted, over the light white 
gauze or sewing, the conversation is much of homely, 
little, pretty things, in easily harmonious, flowing voices. 
The white ringed hands work busily, restlessly. . . . 

There is linen to be sorted, socks counted, shirts stacked 
on the shelves, bandages wrapped and packed ; the ladies 
are active, executive, bustling ; they fold, unfold and pack 
away with firm, precise fingers, their voices rise impul- 
sively in tone and vigor. Madame B. with the gray 
hair and the portly figure is here and there directing — at 
her skirt trots her bushy brown Pomeranian on dainty 
alert legs: the red- ribboned bell about his neck tinkles 
lightly. 

When supplies are asked for Madame is punctilious 
and careful about disturbing her neat piles. 

"Who is it you say was opere to-day that we must give 
out so many compresses? Poor Martin? Ah, but yes, 
he is a brave little one and must get well. ... A convoy 
has arrived? Tell me how many? Ah, is not that 
fortunate! Exactly enough pieces to go around, but 

33 



34 "WATER COLORS" 

not one more. These poor men ! how good it will seem 
to them to have clean shirts and warm socks for their 
feet. But surely the blesses will soon be better here, mes 
cheres." 

There is always just what is needed, what is comfort- 
ing in the neat piles which Mesdames have stacked. Like 
a kindly directing Providence, wisely knowing and gently 
providing for the needs of a turbulent world apart, un- 
disturbed, the work of the ouvroir goes on, has gone on, 
for weeks, for months, and years. The gilt flowered 
clock on the mantel ticks away full, busy moments. 



THE ARRIVAL 

Everything is in readiness to receive them; — the long 
rows of white hospital cots stand immaculate and empty 
with covers turned squarely at the corners, Red Cross 
bags of clean linen laid out. In the kitchen the water is 
left to heat, white jugs of tea and tisanes prepared. 

The straggling procession of stooping or lame figures, 
in the shabby, dirty or ill-smelling blue, files in, — in the 
rear, the orderlies with their stretcher cases. 

Each blesse is quickly assigned his number ; to bed, the 
salle de pansement, the washrooms. The procession of 
soldiers is unthinking and joyless it seems, only the in- 
firmieres in whisking white and the Doctor who admmis- 
ters in his neat apron and close-cut beard, are thoroughly 
satisfied. Hospital procedure is faultless: the nurse 
passes from bed to bed to ask the hlesse his name ; he tells 
it: 

"Garreau, and then there are my wife and little girls 
at home, too" — ^but here to-night he is Number 59, and 
she must pass on to the next. 

We carry trays from bed to bed, — a bottle of red wine 
and a piece of neatly cut bread for each one. We won- 
der if they will not find our fare better than that they 
are used to in the trenches. 

"Dans les tranchees? We have the Pinard there to 
make us happy, — the bread is blacker than yours, but then 
we have all we want, — ^we may help ourselves — " 

Tall jugs of herb- tea are at the last passed around; 
hot tisane just brewed from fresh, strengthening herbs. 

35 



36 "WATER COLORS" 

It is the cosy evening drink, we know, of their own little 
homes in the provinces. 

Yet, — "What is it? . . . tisane f" They smack their 
lips questioningly, not sure whether they altogether like 
it. 

"Ah, well, — it is a long time since we have been chez 
nous, you understand, — grown unaccustomed to the taste 
perhaps." 

At the last we tuck the sheets firmly about each one ; we 
hope they will have a good night and be less tired tomor- 
row. 

One of them is tossing on his bed a bit : "The feathers, 
somehow, seem all soft and uneven." 

We leave them quietly, turning down the lights, all is 
arranged. 

The next morning all is rearranged, happy, egaye: 
these grimy soldiers seem weary children just come home, 
— sighing, laughing, jesting, one with another, glad to be 
here and to stay awhile ; — yes, in short they are ches eux. 

Pipes and cards are had out of the knapsacks, groups 
form around a table, chair or bed, "n'importe," to toss 
cards or coppers for their favorite game la manille. Even 
the couche is unpacking the bag slung at his bed-post, 
whence he pulls his old purse, his coppers, his letters, — 
and is soon scribbling in pencil and hot haste for the 
Posfe. Another is sewing patches on shabby coat or leg- 
gings. Still the beloved soldier's cap is worn jauntily on 
one side of the head, — an odd sort of night-cap or ac- 
companiment for pink pajamas. 

Now, and from the first day, all would wish to take 
some part in the management of this new home, their 
hospital. They are interested and curious as to the par- 



THE ARRIVAL 37 

ticular treatment which they are getting; they wish to 
help take care of each other and are politely afraid that 
"Mesdames les Infirmieres" work too hard. They will 
make their own beds and dust with more speed than care. 
They spend hours in the arrangement of their flowers 
and their own critical admiration of the bouquet in its 
tasteful combination of color. Prints and photographs 
of family groups are fastened on white hospital walls. 
Week-old newspapers and tobacco smoke accumulate in 
spite of all one can do : 

Finally, — "Here it is as cosy as back in the trenches," 
says one seasoned old poilu over his pipe and the checker- 
board. 

The evening's jug of tisane is passed from bed to bed 
with many a joke and familiar comment: 

"It is a bon petit verre you bring us." 

"Why, yes. Mademoiselle is our Madelon, — Madelon, 
Madelon, — ^you know our song?" 

"Bonsoir." 

"Bonne Nuit," — and then they sleep. 



GARDES DE NUIT 

Blue-papered lights twinkle down the long hall-ways, — 
and there comes whispering old Madame Malaguti like 
some whirring night beetle, her face thin and gaunt and 
with glasses, the brilliant candle before her, her finger 
laid close on her lips. 

In the pantry the stout, square, gray old Cazemelias in 
black cap and spare white apron, — wise man in the town 
and head mason, here looks over his large nose and 
glasses to fussily stir in the pots some simple night drink 
for his blesses. 

Up and down-stairs, continually rounding the hospital, 
there passes the Comtesse de Montmeche, majestic, stal- 
wart and silent, with night-light carefully shaded. 



38 



POILUS 

Gradually we come to know them, — there is Lafitte with 
the handsome, Basque face, the kind words of strong 
Southern twang, he who most diligently dusts and scrubs 
out the rooms and the bath-tubs. 

Little Martin has a fresh child's face and pink cheeks. 
He sketches the boats from his window, the flowers he 
brings from the garden, until those bright little water- 
colors adorn all our hospital wall. 

Gilbert sits patient all day, always prepared for a visit ; 
his hair is neatly parted in the middle, his long slender 
hands precisely folded — those beautifully kept hands, 
white, like a woman's, in contrast even with the coarse 
sheet on which they are lying. He just wants to talk 
about his home before the war. It is three years since 
he has seen his mother, the sister and brothers. They are 
from the invaded districts, but fortunately all had escaped 
when the Germans came. He was young then, just a 
child, but this would not have mattered ; many of the com- 
rades at school had been taken away by the Boches, for 
various kinds of work, caring for the horses and so forth. 
He had made a most miraculous escape truly — he would 
go on to tell us about it and, those years since, with the 
army at Salonique, so far from his own village. But he 
is too weak to talk long, with a high color and dark eyes 
which look the larger in a thin face. 

Remy is tall and red-belted, long-limbed, hollow- 
chested, with something the look of a brigand in his gaunt, 
hard face with the glistening blue eyes and uncared-for 

39 



40 "WATER COLORS" 

beard. He will conform to no hospital rules and is even 
rebellious that he can buy no shoes in town. 

"If we are not allowed shoe-leather I shall run bare- 
foot right through the streets of Cannes, out on your 
Croisette, even, I tell you, — ^you shall see, you shall see !" 

Here in ugly bare feet, sun-burned and hardened, 
swinging his long arms, his cap hanging quite off the back 
of his head, he strides through our halls, — noisy, jesting, 
laughing, his arm about some comrade of smaller stature. 

When Fleury and Ribot quarrel over the soup, Remy 
gives them a rough word of encouragement for their dif- 
ference as he wrests the tureen from them and himself 
undertakes distribution. Only little old Madame Nier is 
never afraid of the striding, red-belted Remy. Like some 
purring white cat she trots behind him encouraging with 
her soft voice and the ladle : 

"Eh bien, — ^mon petit, brave petit, de la soupe?" 




POILUS 



LES HOMES 

What a child he is, this young French soldier ! In spite 
of his heavy, bristling, black moustache he presents a 
child's countenance with two round, dark, wondering 
eyes, — for all the world like a picture of the children of 
de Monvel. Only take away the moustache and put him 
into a black school apron and you will have a figure quite 
familiar, if long ago you read French children's books. 
His smile and ways are easy, pleasant, provincial, — his 
speech a bit drawling with the odd Southern twang. He 
is a farmer's boy from the Midi, "pres Toulouse." 

His mother and father have never left their farm-land, 
but he has been very far and has even seen the Americans. 
What does he think of them? With his easy smile, — 
"lis sont gentils, ils donnent des cigarettes." 
He has no wise words, no expressed philosophy; he 
sees the world through sad, wondering, round child's eyes, 
and only shakes his head : 

"C'est malheureux se laisser tuer comme ga." 
Question him about his prospects, the farm-land which 
he will inherit; he is a child and has not yet thought of 
these things. The fact of his youth is the war, — he is a 
wanderer from the homeland, a playfellow with his cama- 
rades — for the Future? — "Ah oui, si je ne suis pas 



41 



THE TOY SOLDIER 

We call him our little toy soldier, with his waxen-smooth 
red and white cheeks, the small piquant nose, scarlet lips, 
the round, dark, bright beadlike eyes, and the black mous- 
tache that curls upward. 

Even here in the hospital he is dressed all correctly, 
every child would know him a soldier; with his red 
trousers, black striped, — the snug blue coat and brass but- 
tons, while on his head, to one side, is the round, tight, 
black velvet cap. 

His walk is springy with neat and exact little steps. 
When he meets you he will neither smile nor speak the 
Bonjour, but stops to raise the left hand to the cap in 
a stiff and wooden salute. The right sleeve of his coat 
hangs loosely down, quite limp and empty, as if the arm 
inside were clean blown away by a ball from out some 
toy cannon. But when he came to the Dressings Room 
and his left hand rolled up the right sleeve, I saw where a 
real arm had been. . . . 

"It hurts?" 

"No," and slowly he smiled, a bit sadly. 

"What is it then?" 

"I think there is something Fd tell you, — it is of my 
fiancee. You know at home. Mademoiselle, I have a 
fiancee, a toute petite fiancee." 

"Yes, do tell me about her." 

"Her father's farm adjoins my father's farm in the 
country. As children, she and I played together, always 

42 



THE TOY SOLDIER 43 

together. I would toss her in the hay and she picked 
nosegays for me." 

"Go on—" 

"As we grew older we worked side by side in the fields ; 
pretty she was with the grace of a corn-flower. . . . 
When the call to arms came, for the first time in our lives 
we were parted. I held her then, and we kissed good-by 
— and she promised that when I returned we should 
marry. For these three years she has sent me her sweet, 
pretty, neat little notes, to tell me that always she loved 
me. . . . When I had lost my right arm I was almost 
quite glad for now I might return to Odette." 

His idle left hand played uneasily with the paper it 
crumpled. This saddest of letters had come ! The gruff 
old paysan father would not consent to the wedding. His 
daughter marry a cripple? What sort of a farmer would 
he make, when the two old people were gone, to care for 
her and the farm-land? All this Odette had written and 
sent with her tears and her kisses. . . . The smooth pink 
and white face looked nearly nonplussed. Could there 
be tears in the eyes of a little toy soldier? 

*T have my left arm and my pension, and I love her 
as much now as ever." 

"Go marry her then." 

"But the father?" 

"But you are the lover, — ^will she then stay behind in 
her father's house when you come to fetch her?" 

"But children must do as the fathers ..." 

"Pooh ! the old father ! Courage ! Be brave ! You a 
soldier ! Marry Odette and I will send her a silver tea- 
set for the wedding." 

"A silver tea service, — no, — ^truly?" 



44 "WATER COLORS" 

"But yes ! a small reward for your courage !" 

"Mademoiselle, is it true?" 

"Most certain." 

"A silver tea service! That gruff old father would 
give his consent if he knew it! A gift not alone for 
Odette, but her children, and their children's children," 
— and then I saw he could laugh, this little toy soldier ! 



JOUR DE FETE 

(July 4, 1918) 

A DARK, mysterious object seemed to flutter continuously 
against the light expanse of sky, all that was visible 
of the outof-doors from the corner of the hospital 
room where I was used to open my eyes in the morning. 
When I went to the window for a nearer view I dis- 
covered the colors red and blue, — of course, it was an 
American flag fluttering from the flag-pole on top the old 
fortress tower. 

The little flag fluttering there so high above the town 
seemed a sign and token of the holiday festivity which 
prevailed below. From church towers the bells were 
ringing, the fronts of the little shops were draped in bunt- 
ing, flags fluttered from v/indows, holiday crowds filled 
the streets ; the bazars, especially colorful in appearance, 
displayed for sale on their stands the flags of America 
and of all the Allies. Here women and children stopped 
in on their holiday walk to bargain for ''un tout petit dra- 
peau," but it was always the "drapeau Americain" which 
they wished to carry home, or to wear in cap or button- 
hole. 

In the hospital the dames infirmieres hurried about their 
work with especial briskness, for there was to be fete this 
afternoon, they informed me with joyous and meaning 
glances. They were all wearing a knot of gay tricolor 
somewhere on their white costumes, or a band of it tied 

45 



46 "WATER COLORS" 

about the arm. Motherly old Madame Nier embraced me 
on both cheeks : 

"This is your jour de fete, and that is for America." 

Today I was 'T enfant Americaine," and treated by all 
as a sort of holiday child. I was released from regular 
duty, and the Directrice of the hospital, herself, came to 
congratulate me and to ask if I would not have the great 
goodness to distribute some tiny American flags which 
she had procured for each of the men in the wards. They 
would be so happy to have a word with an American to- 
day. 

I was called away from chatter with the men to the 
refectoire, where a piano had been set up for the oc- 
casion, and I found most of the hospital staff and con- 
valescents gathered about it to learn what they called 
"VHymne Americain." I was to demonstrate to them 
the words and tune. 

In the afternoon all was actually en fete at the hos- 
pital. The men had decorated their large dining-hall with 
golden-rod and other flowers, a stage was put up at the 
end and rows of wooden benches placed for the audience. 
Caisson, our wounded sous-officier, in a new blue uniform 
and stiff boots, which cHnked at the heels as he stopped 
in front of each row of benches, distributed neatly- 
penned programmes. 

One after another the performers stepped to the edge 
of the platform, a little awkwardly, with some precision ; 
they looked shy at first, self-consciously dressed-up ; most 
of them had never worn their full uniform in hospital be- 
fore, and certainly not the decorations. They wore their 
hair brushed flat down or else curled for the occasion. 



JOUR DE FETE 47 

the little American flag pinned conspicuously to the front 
of each coat. 

A fair, delicate-looking boy, gesturing a bit stiffly with 
his one arm, sang in a sweet voice, which lacked in 
strength, of the Belgian child as he played with his little 
wooden gun ''c'etait un petit gars de sept ans," and of the 
German officer who shot him so cruelly. A poilu with 
drooping moustache and eyes that sloped dreamily at the 
corners, enchanted with his soft airs and sentimental 
words. A dark, rough man sang in a full untutored voice 
of the trenches, the dreams and wine and death, the love 
and fife of his comrades, the poilus. These performers 
who seemed shy at first, became gradually entirely ob- 
livious of the audience ; they sang, they recited, they per- 
formed; pathetic, patriotic, sentimental, dramatic or gay, 
for the sheer joy of the performance and the indulgence 
of their spirit. 

At length the last one was forcibly made to descend 
from the platform, and the chosen players of the evening 
came on in a witty one-act comedy of their own choosing, 
presented with considerable elegance and finish. 

After this the stage was given over to entertainment of 
a very different nature; jokes and horse-play, sheer frolic 
and acrobatic stunts, — until the Doctor feared for the 
safety of partly healed arms and legs. The Directeur 
called for the National airs, a sign that the entertainment 
had all but outlasted the evening. 

It was the American Hymn and not the Marseillaise 
which tonight might have seemed the native song of 
France. Whether it was planned to this effect or not, the 
Marseillaise was merely a part of the regular programme, 
sung somewhat artificially, in operatic manner by a lady 



48 "WATER COLORS" 

draped in the tricolor for the occasion. The men did not 
venture to mingle their rude voices with the operatic 
notes, and we all applauded perfunctorily when it was 
done. 

For the American air the other American nurse and I 
were called to the front of the platform. Behind us all 
the singers of the evening grouped themselves for the 
chorus. Soon the entire gathering was joining us, and 
the tune and words rolled out, given a new lightness 
and almost rollicking rhythm in these lusty French voices. 

Cheers and shouts of "Vive V Amerique et les Ameri- 
cainsT* greeted the closing bars, and the men gathered 
about us two Americans to offer their heartfelt thanks 
and congratulations: 

"Was that the song of America? — well surely it was 
pretty." And then they must thank us too for the man- 
ner in which we had sung, for the way in which we had 
given our song interpretation. 

On our parts we thanked them for the pleasure ,they 
had provided, for the way in which they celebrated this, 
our National Holiday. But to the French poilu will ever 
belong the last word in a graceful expression of grati- 
tude: 

"It is we who should thank the Americans," one of 
them said. "All France is sad, and even our own festal 
days cannot be happy ones. It is for this reason we must 
thank the Americans especially, that they have allowed 
us to share in their own holiday when we may be glad 
again with them." 



THE POSTMAN-PRIEST 

"Monsieur" Barrall has a round jovial face and figure, 
bright black eyes and long black beard. On week-day 
mornings, alert in short knickerbockers and black stock- 
ings, he makes the round of the hospital with mail-bag 
and letters. He is not the distributor of letters only, but 
scraps and items of news from town. With an air of 
confident assurance, certain of a quick answering smile 
from the sick-bed, he hands out his letters, calling each 
patient by name. But "Monsieur" Barrall does not linger 
at this bedside or that even over the gossip he has from 
en ville. His progress from bed to bed is in rapid, 
hurrying short footsteps with an occasional quick glance 
at the large gold watch which he carries, like Alice's rab- 
bit in progress toward its burrow. The daily distribution 
over, Pere Barrall hurries from material duties to his little 
room under the roof where he reads in good old books, 
and writes from what he reads and his own daily observa- 
tions on fife. They are simple words, the humble Phi- 
losophy of the Postman-Priest, — his sermon for Mass on 
Sunday. 



49 



AT MASS 

Only on Saturday afternoons the work of the ouvroir is 
interrupted. Mesdames have brought from home baskets 
of carefully tended garden flowers. With exquisite pre- 
cision they arrange and place the tall vases in our bleak 
hospital hallway, — "it is for Veglise des blesses, tomor- 
row." 

On Sunday morning a crabbed old figure walks 
through the halls. He rings a bell as he goes and his keen 
blue eyes glance shyly up from under his shaggy white 
eyebrows to see who will answer his summons. Doors 
open all down the dusky corridors as the poilus come out 
from their rooms, smoothing their hair with their hands, 
pulling on their blue overcoats. So they follow the 
harsh tinkle of the old porter's bell as they shuffle after — 
down the long stairway, into the hallway for Mass. 

And there they sit in bent-shouldered rows, one behind 
another, until the door swings open into a bright little 
chapel, all tinsel and flowers. There steps out a familiar, 
black-gowned figure, and Pere Barrall is there to say the 
Mass. Faithful Ribot sits in a corner to ring the sanctus 
bell, and the long blue rows bend to the prayers in unison. 

The music of the little organ is difficult, the notes 
querulous, intermittent at first, then high and weak and 
incongruous as a woman's voice singing alone a gay, 
martial air to lead that fuller chorus of soldiers : 

O Jeanne d'Arc 
Prends de nouveau ta place 
Au front du regiment, 
50 



AT MASS 51 

Et va lutter hors de V Alsace 

Jusqu'au dernier des Allemands. 

O Jeanne d'Arc a la frontiere 

Tes fills combattent I'etranger, 

A leurs secours, vole O guerriere ! 

Car la patrie est en danger. 

O bouclier de la Patrie 

Garde nos fils, qu'ils soient vainqueurs ; 

Nous chanterons, Tame attendrie, 

Vive la France ! la haut les coeurs.* 

Then Pere Barrall, the black-bearded priest, speaks in 
simple words an informal, sensible sermon: 

"My good children, brave little soldiers of France, to 
you I speak especially. But indeed all are soldiers fight- 
ing their own stern battle of Life. You may be ill, yet 
do not be discouraged. What is your weapon ? Courage ! 
Courage is necessary for every occasion. Live each day 
then as it comes, courageously. Follow your generals, be 
obedient to your elders, your superiors. Above all, be 
brave, and trust to the day of Victory, which shall most 
surely dawn for the valiant. For remember that the 
Good God is ever on their side : let them march with forti- 
tude under His banner. . . . " 

The military rows on the bench relax a little and one 
poilu nudges another. 

* A h3rtnn customarily sung at the soldiers' Mass to the 
tune of "Nous Voulons Dieu," an air with a martial swing and 
rhythm. 



DAYS OFF 

They lie on high sunny banks in the garden, or they sit in 
idle rows by the street, their feet on the railing; looking 
out at the passers-by, laughing their dry jests at this and 
at that one. 

They have ''cartes de sorties" for Thursdays and Sun- 
days, when they put on their uniforms, quite complete, or 
gray and shabby and old, — ragged maybe, — what matter? 
There is some bright touch of color to add; a ribbon or 
Croix de Guerre. So, quite strung with medals, swinging 
their sticks, they may saunter up and down the main 
street, — greeted here and there by acquaintances — stop- 
ping to speak with e;ich old market-woman, "ma mere" 
Or they may stop by for some demoiselle of the 
town, — the pink-cheeked blanchisseuse to walk out with 
them. Chic and pretty, with quick high-heeled little steps, 
she trots at the side of her soldier, proud of his shabby 
gray-blue. 

Under the bright cafe awning there is a group of com- 
rades over the glasses together. Under the white- 
limbed trees on the Place, the poilu does not remain long 
on his bench alone: brown-legged children run to his 
knees, pull at his coat, the better to see what ribbon he 
wears. He must tell them of war and the battles he's 
seen. A bent old man sits beside him, his brown, 
shrunken hand holding an ear up to listen. 

Down by the shore they lounge idle among the boats, — 
listening to gray-haired fisher folk's tales of their fathers, 

52 



DAYS OFF 53 

jesting, teasing the red-cheeked girls, so busy mending 
their nets ! 

Out on the high, white sands, amid the usual chatter, 
bright colors and sunshades, here and there lie the gray- 
blue figures, solitary or silent, at rest in the warmth of 
the sun, their rough, browned hands idly playing with the 
sand. So they look with eyes dreamily wondering, all 
unaccustomed to follow the water. The water, colorful, 
mobile, deceptive, — always advancing, receding; rhythmi- 
cal, gently it rises white from the blue, and sunlit shim- 
mers far on the shore, — then with a soothing recurrent 
sound scatters foam at the idlers' feet. 



AFTER THE STORM 

There is a sea gray and wild, uneasily, restlessly moving. 
The waves are choppy and short, the undertone hollow 
and mocking, dulled in its roar. Shabby, alone, blue-clad 
figures stray down by the shore, drawn by the sea's savage 
wonder, the boom and recession of waves. They are 
blown by the wind as the water, and are gloomy, at one 
with the sea. So they look far over the dull, leaden sur- 
face, or, long in thought, to depths blue and green. Grown 
restless, yet their eyes are held by the water to watch 
yellowed crests falling unrhythmical, a light glint as of 
steel here and there. 



54 



AU REVOIR 

They have been pronounced evacues and are eager to be 
off; they are restless, impatient, sewing up their uniforms, 
poUshing their helmets, — ^until at length the day has come 
when they may go. In the wards all is in turmoil ; they 
are aiding each other with packs and knapsacks, in haste, 
confused, and jesting. 

"Here, here, help me to strap this." 

"Ma foi, — but you are slow, and right clumsy too, for- 
gotten to be a soldier, perhaps? Laissez, hisses then!" 

''Here for the knapsack — " 

"You would not forget your Pinard for the journey?" 

"Ah, Mademoiselle, it is you I shall not forget, nor 
that hon petit verre you brought me always at night-time. 
Well, at home I have a fillette too ; I shall be glad to see 
her, you understand." With a final satisfied shrug old 
Carreau hitches the heavy pack to his shoulder. 

"Well, yes, you who go en convalescence, hah, c'est 
compris, it is two years since I have been ches moi." He 
sits quite ready for the journey, staring before him, his 
strong figure stooping forward. His dark eyes grown 
melancholy, unseeing almost, have lost, for the moment, 
their eagerness of anticipation. Have I not noticed that 
expression before ? It is a look as to something clearly seen 
but not visualized. Now, on the day of departure, is it 
eagerness, restlessness for the unknown they display? 
Rather I think it a sufferance of it, a complete unattach- 
ment, which makes them go so easily. 

With a sigh : "Well, even in the trenches, it's not so bad, 

55 



56 "WATER COLORS" 

— the captain is good and kind as a father, — and then 
there are the comrades, a jolly family together, — " 

''Dans les tranchees" underneath the gay words the 
look, I think, tells not so much of a happy return as of a 
march still ahead, steadily on, eyes to the front, and ac- 
ceptance of the whole unknown. 

''Au front, vous saves . . . " But why tell us more 
after all. Their manner, this morning, is even a bit alien, 
superior : they have stayed in the home we provided, they 
have been happy, obedient, children perhaps, — ^but our 
care cannot follow them now. 

Sweetly they thank us for what we did for them here. 
They hardly need to tell us they have been happy, gay once 
more, and when they came to us so ill too ! but they go 
"gueris, forts." 

Yes, truly they are changed; even little Gignon has 
fresh, round cheeks as well as the others. Today it is 
their helmets, too, I think, give them somehow a different 
expression: it is a stern, set look; — I wonder can they 
laugh just the same with that heavy strap under the chin? 
Yes, it must be so, for even our jolly Nanton is putting 
on his. 

"Your casque becomes you, Nanton, en effet, — how do 
you like our little one in his helmet, Mademoiselle?" 

"How he has polished it for the journey too, really 
tres chic. I think I can even see myself in it, can you?" 

One will try it, then another, where there is a bright 
glint on the rounded, steel surface. But even after days 
of careful polishing the helmets of four years campaign- 
ing will not give back quite the reflection of these laugh- 
ing countenances. There is only a surface glint, even 
something of the sinister, — after all, it is only 



AU REVOIR 



S7 



steel, hard and gray and cold, blackened with many 
rough months' wind and weather. So it is on this gray 
morning of their departure we sense, perhaps, a little 
more keenly than we have been wont to do, that sterner 
reality which lies under the happier trifles of their lives 
spent with us, — the bare facts of their young existence, — 
hard and stern, inexorable, — even as those helmets, with 
uncompromising, hard, cold surfaces. Their handshake, 
too, is hard and brief, confident and assured, their words 
of farewell casual, carefree or resigned. They are re- 
turning to the front, to homes en convalescence, to their 
duty, the camps. After all, this has been but a resting- 
place, one stage on their journey. We stand at the door 
to say good-bye as they hurry out past us, heavy packs 
on their shoulders, steel on their heads, not flashing steel 
but casques of black, in this cold gray light of the morn- 
ing. 

"Merci pour les hons soins," even at the last they do 
not forget to thank us for our care. 

"If you ever pass through my little town, afterwards, 
you will let me know?" 

"America? — Ah, no, that is too far." 

"We are sorry to leave the comrades, the hospital, but, 
— ah well, c'est la guerre." 

Two and two, half mockingly, half seriously, they form 
their little line, shoulder to shoulder from our door. They 
are eager to be off, to be where they are not. To what 
far journey's end may they be moving, even as they pass 
so quietly, simply from our doors? Far down the road 
the dust whirls before them, forever shifting, blowing, 
.... but where ? 

"Bonne. Chance — Bon Voyage — " 



58 "WATER COLORS" 

Still little Pierre's hand lingers in ours for a longer mo- 
ment. He is not gueri, but must go on to the next hospi- 
tal for especial treatment. And he will never like any as 
well as this one. After all what is the use ? His expres- 
sion is vague, meaningless, and there is the journey which 
he dreads, and with his crutches. 

"Allans, courage!" one of the comrades has swung 
little Pierre's heavy pack to his own shoulder, and, sup- 
porting him under the arm, they join the departing pro- 
cession. 

From our doorway we wave to them all : 

''Bonne Chance. Bon Voyage. Au Revoir." . . . 

How often must that cheerful Au Revoir be spoken 
in vain. So I think as we watch them go : Laissus, stal- 
wart and reliable, with brave, broad shoulders; Raoul, 
cocksure and clever with slightly swaggering gait: 
Caisson, sous-officier, a neat, trim figure, — all are now 
only a line, dull blue and indefinite, on the gray-white 
road. The light dust rises between us. 

Yet, no, there is one has lingered behind the others ; it 
is at the fence of the little house across the street. A 
woman in a black shawl has come out to him in the gar- 
den, and their hands meet across the low gate : 

"Au Revoir." 

Our lives have not met again, even in thought we have 
been unable to follow them. Others have come, taken 
their places and gone as they went. Through the weeks, 
the months, the years, we may have little news of these 
wanderers on their far journeys. Still we know they 
have yet thought of us, as letters have come, the graceful 
expression of gratitude of the simple peasant soldier: 



AU REVOIR 59 

"... You have with great delicacy cared for us, with- 
out preference, without thought of yourself, and in this 
you have replaced the mother, and the wife. But I know 
that your soul as your thoughts are quite above these 
praises, and this is why I close my letter — but your names 
. . . are inscribed in my heart and thoughts, and I come, 
and this is why I come, to beg you to communicate my 
thanks to the others for all their devoted care, and to tell 
them that I keep the best remembrance of them. I close 
with the hope that one day on high, sous la banniere di- 
vine, you will find that eternal recompense which a poor 
invalid, such as I, wishes you." 



AU MARCH^ 

We must stop at the flower market, all colorful, where the 
papier-mache jars are daily replenished with red roses, 
spicy oeillets, Riviera flower par excellence, pinks and nar- 
cissus, — and violets and orange blossoms lie in profusion 
on the counter between. The kindly pink-cheeked flower 
vender in a green shawl will sell us flowers in her harsh 
voice "hon marche'' for ''les soldats, qui les adorent vous 
savez," and, with a smile, there is a bunch of violets too 
for "Mademoiselle I'Infirmiere!" At the market of the 
town we must bargain over the price of good fresh but- 
ter cut from the pat in matter-of-fact plain slices; the 
strengthening yellow cheese, plentiful green vegetables, 
red and yellow tomatoes, strawberries in season. 

We must not forget to stop at the little epicerie in a 
back street, where, behind the obvious counters of dried 
fruits, chocolate bars and good red hams, Madame has 
not failed to conceal for our coming her two or three 
oeufs du jour, a rare delicacy for our grands malades. 
And it is her own white poulets have laid them, the same 
which walk under our feet on the rough board floor to 
pick up yellow grains which have fallen. 

In the main street there is the prosperous Epicerie 
Municipale of almost pre-war prosperity, where are dis- 
played boxes of sweet gateaux which invalids love, jellies 
and other imports, the strengthening vins de Bordeaux. 
A middle-aged shop-keeper waits professionally on us, 
while his wife and daughters are regularly called 

60 



AU MARCH1& 6i 

down from their provincial parlor to say "Bon jour'' to 
''Mademoiselle/' They will tell you how, even in these 
black days, good desserts may be made with the fine Swiss 
lait condense. They know, for they themselves must 
have their Sunday sweets. Shall they give you a little 
package extra to try for ''les blesses" f Again, the officer 
son waits behind the counter to be proudly introduced to 
his father's customers. When peace comes he will take 
over the little shop, and now even he will assist to wrap 
a paper or adjust a string, surely too elegant to do more 
in his gold-braided uniform. 

On the main street too are the gay crowded bazaars 
with their air of provincial sophistication, stocked with 
bright nameless knick-knacks, games and flags, camp- 
stools, furnishings and this and that. For our hospital 
purchases the calculating shop-keeper allows us just 5% 
off exactly: "Voyes vousf" It is painstakingly calcul- 
ated in flourishing figures. 

Two steps down from the busy sidewalk of the rue 
d'Antibes we enter the dark little bureau de tabac, 
to present for our blesses their ''cartes de tabac" or to 
buy them the daily Journal Behind the newsstand, to 
wait on us, there is seated a little old woman wearing a 
plain black bodice and white fluted collar. She sits very 
straight on her stool, her hands folded on the counter in 
front of her. Altogether she looks the very picture of 
decorum; — indeed one would rather expect to find her 
seated so on the front row of benches in the cathedral of 
a Sunday morning than here in her crowded bureau de 
tabac. Her large and immaculate white cap, stiff and 
frilled, encircles her brown immobile face with its quick 



62 "WATER COLORS" 

black eyes alert for the business. One after another the 
passers-by come in; the street-car conductor, the girl in 
gray shawl and gold ear-rings, the permissionnaire in 
shabby blue. They ask for the morning's Journal, a 
package of tobacco, a bit of ribbon. Yet they will stop 
for ''Bonjour" with ''ma mere" as they lay their coppers 
down on her counter. 

Attracted by all sorts of stringed instruments in the 
window we went into a shop on a side street to see if there 
we might make the rare purchase of new records for our 
Victrola. 

A stooping old figure stood behind the long empty coun- 
ter. The old man seemed only feeble and embarrassed 
to have customers to wait on. And I should judge that 
he made his shop more of a living-room than a place of 
business. For there was an open fire, and two or three 
comfortable-looking armchairs, which took most of the 
room, were drawn up to the grate. 

We wished to buy discs with mixed voices, for which 
the men at the hospital asked, we explained. 

Yes, he had some, ''tres jolis, tres jolis." Shaking his 
old head, "Manon, Carmen . . " he went on muttering to 
himself persuasively, as though in reminiscence of names 
long forgotten. He hobbled off. When he had brought 
the discs from their dusty concealment somewhere behind 
his counter, he asked, with a peculiar wistfulness, if we 
would not hear them before buying? 

The one Victrola in his store he pulled to the centre of 
the room, and deliberately dusted it. He adjusted first 
one horn, then another, until he had one which suited, 
and carefully, lovingly, he put on his discs. Listening, he 



AU MARCHE 63 

stood, a short, stumpy figure, ''drooping" were it tall 
enough, his head on one side with the most woe-begone 
expression. Never have I seen anything more melan- 
choly than his old face with the protruding eyes and 
generally convex contour, the drawn and sadly reminis- 
cent look of a face reflected on the back of a spoon. Once 
he brightened and straightened perceptibly as he adjusted 
a new disc and crooned triumphantly "Caro-00000-so." 

"Have you ever heard Caruso sing?" I asked him. He 
shook his head. 

"This sounds very like ; I have heard him in America." 
He looked dumbly, unbelieving, and when I told him I 
would take his record at a rather high price, he merely 
shook his gray head as he wrapped up our purchase, 
looking more melancholy than ever. 

With Victrola, books and games, in traveling circus 
fashion, we journey from one hospital to another. Each 
day at one o'clock I hear the usual tinkle of the horse's 
bell and the three peremptory blows on the horn with 
which Malaguti announces his arrival, and the turnout 
drives in at the gate. Red- faced Malaguti with the keen 
blue eyes will tell you how he traded b^s old horse, "le 
pauvre bete/' with the old carriage thrown in, for this 
reasonably plump black horse, and the substantial victoria 
with white cushions. The "trade" was effected by the 
addition of a considerable sum of francs and sous, to be 
sure, as Malaguti sadly explains with much head-shaking. 
But this is not hard to believe when we think of the cab 
prices which we have paid him this winter. Malaguti is 
properly proud of his new "stock in trade." At every 
halt, be it only for a moment, the horse is carefully 
covered with his warm red blanket. Although on the 



64 "WATER COLORS" 

road it is difficult to remark his spirit, this is stoutly af- 
firmed by his proud master, when the new and interesting 
possession is at a standstill, and Malaguti himself sits 
more firmly than ever on the box to prevent the drowsy 
beast from starting. 

Style is all very well in its proper time and place, but 
in this instance it has its drawback. The halt now is not 
to help us with our things to or from the carriage, but to 
cover the horse quickly as may be with his gaudy red and 
yellow blanket, which is elaborately adjusted and re- 
adjusted. Even though we are standing ready on the steps 
the blanketing ceremony is regularly gone through with. 
Today, however, we are not there but waiting at the win- 
dow upstairs. We watch Malaguti put on the blanket as 
usual, and with this extra precaution, the horse, standing 
in the warm sun, is soon comfortably hanging his head 
and in an evidently comatose condition. Since we are not 
even now on the steps with our belongings, Malaguti pro- 
ceeds with another quite usual ceremony. He cautiously 
pulls a large earthenware pot from under his box seat, 
takes a plate, knife and napkin from under the cushions, 
ties the napkin firmly under his neck, sets the plate be- 
tween his knees, and is soon making his meal, eating long 
strings of macaroni, as carelessly and comfortably as 
though he were at home in sunny Italy. 



THE ROAD TO NICE 

The early morning tram was crowded with women re- 
turning from market, baskets on their arms, filled with 
green things. There was that slight odor of garlic, too 
slight to be offensive. And how is it they always manage 
to put their clumsy baskets with a ''pardon, Madame/' 
just where they are not in the way, instead of where 
they are, — and it is always : "B'jour, M'ssieurs, M'dames" 
and ''Au Revoir," though we have been casual com- 
panions on our way for the few minutes. 

In the second-class compartment were an old gentleman 
and his fillette; she occupied with her bound volume 
and knitting, he with his Journal, and the brown loaf and 
wine from his bag, which they shared, mostly silent at 
noon-time. Opposite sat a mother and daughter; their 
hats were removed, they settled and re-settled themselves 
as for an all-day's journey, and then got out at the small- 
est station half an hour's ride down the line. Had they 
come from one of those little red-roofed villages among 
the hills, I wondered, and would they ever go as far as 
Nice? 

All along the way the Senegalese were encamped — 
black soldiers in red fez caps and sashes. As one saw 
them here and there at some unexpected turn of the road, 
guarding a bridge, driving a mule team, they gave an ex- 
tra touch of color, a picturesqueness, a certain savagery 
to this already rugged landscape. 

Those red- roofed villages among the gray-green of the 

65 



66 "WATER COLORS" 

hills blaze out like a bit of flame, or like our maple-groves 
in autumn. The old red-roofed town or Roman remain 
seems now quite as much a part of the landscape as the 
red rocks and the sea which has fashioned them, the sea 
that I watched swirling there among the rocks below, in 
all the deepest, clearest shades of greens and blues and 
purest amber. Far out over the surface, there was that 
softer, silver light with sudden and mysterious changes to 
pink, to opalescent, and, deepening with the setting sun, 
the brilliance of sky and sea were reflected, soft and evan- 
escent, in the snow on the mountain-tops. 

Gradually we came into a more settled part of the coast, 
the Riviera one is accustomed to hear about, with here 
and there a watering-place — a mere collection of strangely 
shaped walls and spires, a painted city in silhouette 
against the evening sky. 

The precise little waiter in a shabby dress-suit hovered 
over us with great solicitude and changed our plates with 
unfailing attention and extraordinary rapidity, — four 
courses and a sweet desert, — remarkable for war times. 

The two gentlemen opposite, conspicuous for their black 
whiskers and civilian clothes, were unusually gay and lo- 
quacious. They had evidently had a most satisfactory 
afternoon at the Casino, and this evening everything 
seemed to please them. They told us that the war would 
probably be ended in another eight days. 

"You should have seen the crowd at Monte Carlo this 
afternoon," they said, "and you could not doubt it, every- 
one so gay and running out of the rooms all the time to 
look at the bulletin boards." 



THE ANNOUNCEMENT 

I CARRIED their morning Journal from bed to bed, as usual. 
To-day it contained rare good news — the first word of 
surrender on the Austrian front. Garreau, flushed and 
inarticulate, danced in bed on his crutches. Some lay in 
dumb, unspeaking rows ; I felt a sort of hard indifference. 
Then, standing between two of our seriously wounded 
poilus, I saw tears in old Esteffe's eyes : 

"So there will be Peace," he said, "surely it should 
make the world very happy — ^but can Peace, more than 
that Medaille Militaire there at my bed-post, restore his 
leg to the father of a family?" 

Young Gilbert on the next bed, grand blesse, turned to 
him a pale, sweet face that lay weak on the pillow : 

"What wounds matter now ?" said the boy of twenty. 



67 



LE JOUR DE GLOIRE 

The men have brought into the gray hospital hallway- 
baskets of greens and bright flowers still found here and 
there in the neglected, overgrown garden. All who are 
able, are today dressed in full soldier's uniform, shabby, 
maybe, but complete. 

The sturdy Laffitte stands on the stepladder below the 
chandelier, with his one arm throwing over it festoons of 
green, or carefully adjusting the flowers handed him by 
his comrades below. 

"Laffitte, you with your one arm must arrange, — you 
are not a gardener's son for nothing : voyez, voyez comme 
il a du gout!" 

The sick and wounded are brought down from the 
wards, and their long chairs and beds placed about the 
side of the hall. They have a wondering, happy look as 
though brought suddenly into a new little world of light 
and color. 

A lady is there to play the piano, and the party begins 
with Chopin and a somewhat too classical flavor. Then 
I am requested to start up the Victrola with anything 
lively, and to keep it going ! The men sing and whistle in 
accompaniment to the popular French Victory March. 
Then comes Guerrin, the cook's, contribution; the little 
kitchen boys come in, in long white aprons, hair brushed 
for the occasion, carrying trays of conventional-looking 
pastry, which turn out to be the most surprising and deli- 
cious cream-puffs. Guerrin appears in the background, — 
we have never seen him out of the kichen before, and here 

68 



LE JOUR DE GLOIRE 69 

he looks quite different and shy, not efficient and com- 
manding, as in his own smoky domain of bright kettles 
below. Soon he is discovered and dragged to the centre 
of the hall and thanked for the treat he provided. He 
pushes aside all who surround him, and switches his apron 
over his arm,— always, with him, a preliminary to action, 
whether it be to snatch the roast from the oven or ad- 
minister a box on the ear to the smallest kitchen boy. So 
now he declares himself in his own manner : 

''Messieurs, Mesdames, it is quite true. Never, no 
never before have I made you cream-puffs for the hospi- 
tal,— and never, absolutely never shall I do so again,— 
but just this once, it is for la Vktoire!" 

There is a moment's silence while Guerrin steps back, 
led and shy, and twirling a lock of his neatly-brushed 
hair in some embarrassment, almost wishing he had not 
spoken. 

Then, amid amused giggles from the little kitchen 
boys, the Director leads in the hand-clapping: "Three 
times three for Guerrin, the Cook!" The men warm to 
the occasion ; again it is "Three times three" for the party, 
the infirmieres— the hall resounds with the strong, rhyth- 
mical clapping: 123-45! 123-45 i It is clap, clap, clap- 
clap, clap! 

We carry around hot chocolate and lemonade and the 
men pull out their tin cups, quarts, in the language of 
the trenches ; every properly equipped poilu on any oc- 
casion, especially a social one, is armed with his quart 
Though the drink is not the traditional Plnard it seems 
to quite revive the spirits of the party, and from now on 
the men take their entertainment into their own hands. 
When he is really happy and festive the poilu becomes 



yo "WATER COLORS" 

dramatic — one of the soldiers has got up at the end of 
the hall and is reciting a patriotic war poem; another 
follows and then another. . . . 

In an obscure corner the old Serbian soldier has tucked 
his violin under his chin and put his bow to the strings 
for the first squeaky notes of the ''Marseillaise." All eyes 
turn slowly, in some surprise, to the quiet old stranger 
among us. The indefinite, bent, old figure in the shabby 
uniform seems to unroll and straighten, magically, there 
before our eyes, until he looks like some proud old seer. 
The eyes grow bright with a far-away, rapt expression. 
What he is actually doing with his arms and the squeaky 
notes from the violin, seem quite separate from the in- 
tent and inspired personality. He puts his violin aside 
with a sweeping gesture, — and, saluting gravely, cries : 

"Vela Francuska!" 

One song or recital follows another, about the poilu 
on permission, the poilu dying on the field, songs pathetic 
or gay as the case may be. The most popular is the song 
of Madelon, the pretty peasant girl who carries wine and 
bread to the soldiers : 

"Madelon, Madelon, Madelon!" 

The tune rises on jubilant, strong voices and gradually 
seems to swell into that universal chorus in which to-day 
the men's voices drown out all the others — 

"Allans enfants de la patrie 
Le jour de gloire est arrive." 



UOUVRIER 

It was one of those inconveniently long cases, only a lit- 
tle incipient lung trouble, really, made it necessary for 
him to remain in this warmer climate. I saw him first 
lounging about the hospital hall ; he was restlessly rolling 
and lighting cigarettes and talking with two of the scrub- 
women. They went their way with words and laughter, 
and he lounged over to where I was sitting. 

"Bon jour, have you perhaps a piece of American chew- 
ing-gum. Mademoiselle?" 

"What beggars \" I thought when I was tired. Yet 
when I looked up there was something so peculiarly win- 
ning, tantalizing, even, about the frank smile, — well one 
could easily understand his way with women of his class. 
With quick sensitiveness, he was already half apologetic. 

"American chewing-gum is so good," he explained, 
besides he was too restless and nervous to smoke much, 
then too it wasn't good for his athletics. 

**You are a sportsman?" 

Well, yes, sport had always been his distraction, his 
amusement for passer le temps." I had noted his ath- 
letic build ; he was on a peculiarly large scale for one of 
his nationality. Yes, swimming, water sports were his 
specialty. He would go up to Paris in the spring for 
the Courses. He sat down then on the edge of the table 
and told me more about himself; he'd been five years at 
the front, — the front-line trenches, too, where he'd worked 
establishing telegraphic communications, and all that time 
he'd never been wounded either. It was only while play- 

71 



'J2 "WATER COLORS" 

ing on General Petain's foot-ball team against the Eng- 
lish his knee had received injury. 

"Voilade la chancer 

Happy miracle indeed that he had escaped like this, 
strong of limb and young ! I had to think how handsome 
he looked in the poilu's blue uniform as he sat non- 
chalantly on the edge of the table, and swung his legs, and 
laughed so easily, tossing back his head. 

After this he came often to talk at odd moments, and 
with ready humor to tell of what he did. He had been 
swimming down by the Croisette, — it was very gay with 
everyone there to watch the bathers these first warm days. 
Again he came from distributing the mail, from walks 
with pretty demoiselles in town. He was sent, one day, 
with a detachment of Annamites, who knew no French, 
to conduct them safely to their depot quite down the line ; 
"droll little dolls," he called them. He had to leave them 
in the train a moment to buy their wine for lunch, and 
when he came back again the train had started, and so 
they went without him. Should he travel after them, 
then, like any nurse in Paris, — an old nurse with white 
cap and strings ? But what a joke ! He laughed, unruf- 
fled by the misadventure, rolling his cigarettes, leisurely. 

Frequently he brought clippings from the paper in 
which he traced the week's swimming matches, the sche- 
dules for the Spring Courses and the part he would take 
in them. One day he came waving an open letter over 
his head in his careless, gay fashion : 

"Mademoiselle, to-day I have something really interest- 
ing to show you, that is I think you will be interested, — 
since you have allowed me to tell you a little of myself and 
my life. I sent home for these prints and snapshots, not 



UOUVRIER 73 

much, little things I took with my own Kodak at the front, 
— I have not told you much of my life there, have I? 
Well, you see these pictures were taken in winter, — see 
the snow so deep on the ground, and here is my poor 
horse, yes, shot under me while I on his back was saved. 
And there am I, say, would you know me really, with all 
that wire about me? It is so I went from post to post 
along the front. And the ditch you see, half filled with 
snow, it is where I lived. See how cosily it is all ar- 
ranged. Here I have another view of the inside and the 
way we fixed it all up, photographs on the wall too, 
do you see? And these good soldiers, all sitting by the 
fire and smoking together, they are my comrades. Ah, 
yes, Mademoiselle, life changes ; can you distinguish the 
wire in the picture, and the little cross on the snow, and 
see the tall man with his back toward you ? It is I at the 
grave of my friends." 

His face had changed, — all the light, mobile gayness 
gone out of it, and I noticed in him for the first time that 
underlying look of utter disillusionment, a sweet, old sad- 
ness. One rarely fails to discover it in the youngest of 
these soldiers of France. 

"I am no longer young," he said it with the simplicity 
of a child, the barest statement, as though divining my 
thoughts. "You see I am like this. Mademoiselle, I cling 
very much to those I have known, and those I have always 
known especially. My youth, I think, has gone with 
those I loved. My cousin and I played together as chil- 
dren, at school, always ... he was with me at the front," 
he put his hands before his eyes as though to shut out 
what he would not see. . . . 

"This was with me in the trenches, too," mechanically 



74 "WATER COLORS" 

he took from his pocket a shabby little red leather frame 
and held it toward me; a girl's face, with finely marked 
contour, arched eyebrows and full sweet lips, surely a 
face about which one could imagine, — I had but a glance. 
"Your marrainef" I ventured. 

"My fiancee," his strong hands encircled the little frame 
firmly, — his own broader lines were so fine in their way. 
And so he continued to sit, his head bent forward in the 
same position, immobile, his eyes on the face. "Sweet, 
eh? I don't know if you will understand, but really it 
wasn't the war I have told you about, not the war at all 
and what I did, was my life those years in the trenches. 
Do you know how it is when things go on about you, 
and yet they're not real? So it was with the days out 
there, one passed another, but they were not real. No, 
it was she — just she and the letters she sent, and 
thinking of the little home I should have with her, happy 
and secure afterward. You know often I felt that I was 
the more to her, too, because she had just me, — she was 
orpheline, her poor mother dead and not much known in 
the guar tier, — and of her father, well, she never knew 
anything. She lived alone with the aunt, the mother's 
sister, and didn't even go with the other girls much. She 
seemed to me always the prettiest, so sweet and shy, and 
different." 

His eyes challenged my sympathy. "I am sorry, how 
did it happen ?" 

"The cold, probably, it was hard and severe those win- 
ters, and she — tou jours un peu delicat, vous savez. It 
was not only my strong young comrades at the front I 
lost. And when I got home in the spring, — ^no, I am not at 
all devot, I tell you, — I saw no justice. I would not think 



L'OUVRIER 75 

that the good God had willled it so, like my little sainted 
mother, at home. And yet when she took me in her arms 
and comforted me, I think I loved her twice as much. No, 
I am not at all croyant, I can tell you, but I believe that 
the Saint e Vierge was a woman, and so there are some 
. . . Ah, well, there are always plenty of others ..." 
Linette, the pretty red-cheeked hlanc his sense, went by, 
her empty basket balanced jauntily on her hip, — and he 
pulled at her skirts a little. The day's work was done. 
What wonder if they walked late hand in hand down 
through the palm gardens; another couple out by the 
sea. There were plenty of others strolling there. These 
nights were made for such things. 

****** 

"Still, I cannot live with the Dead, can I?" 

"I did not mean that, — you will yet be happy, you must 
look forward, surely." 

"Pah ! none of these women would satisfy me, — where 
do you think I might find one like her? Not in France, 
to-day, certes! For the rest, it is only a dream, youth, 
happiness, security, — " 

"And yet you are not sick enough either, if you could 
really go to work now, — " 

"Why, there are always little things I can do here, get 
the mail, make myself useful, no one wants me to go — " 
there was a slow reproach in his voice, — "still, yes, in 
that you are right, too, I have all my life to remake, and 
then my task waits, my profession, — " the mobile face lit 
to the words. 

"Tell me about it, what do you do ?" 

"Forgerer, — construction navale, — I do not feel that 
I have lost my aptitude too greatly either. Yes, I know 



76 "WATER COLORS" 

I shall be happy when I see the sparks fly again from the 
anvil, and with all my strength and spirit bent to the 
work, — I shall be able to forget," he laughed in real 
abandon, — "why I might even forget that I am just a 
being tossed about here at Life's every whim and pleas- 
ure, in the joy I feel when the iron bends to my will." 
He laughed again, a little bitterly. "I am a workman, 
and have no art for saying things ; I speak only according 
to my thoughts. Well, you see, it is this way, the iron 
I can always hammer and bend and shape, well, as I 
could not shape my life, somehow." 



PART II. 
FRENCH COLONIALS 



A NEW LANGUAGE 

The black from Madagascar had not spoken for several 
days even in those poor muffled sounds which he knew. 
He merely lay weak, inexpressive; his round black face 
covered with perspiration and the prominent black eyes 
bulging. Suddenly he motioned, violently, and mur- 
mured strange words : at first we could not understand, — 
then I followed his poor straining eyes that looked out 
to sea, and noted the undulating movement of the thin 
hand. "Poissonf" I asked. "Ah, oui." For the first 
time in many days he grinned and showed the white teeth. 
Since then I have found that many of these Colonials 
have an intense longing to eat of fresh fish, before they 
die. 

Though there be many tongues among us we have a 
common language, — it is easy to understand: sure, neat 
accents of confident cheer, soft slurring words of com- 
fort, brusque jokes of the trenches, broken, yearning 
syllables of the stranger. Or it is a cry of human pain, the 
sigh of relief, quick, transforming laughter; a look of 
sympathy, understanding: French? Sometimes I won- 
der. At any rate it is the language of this little hospital 
of France. 

The man from Tunisie has such a sweet, lonely face 
that it is impossible not to stop and talk with him as I 
pass his bed in the ward. He talks in his language, I in 
mine, and yet we can somehow each understand the 
other. I know perfectly well that he is telling me 
how warm the sun is in Tunisie, — and how he had not 

79 



8o "WATER COLORS" 

been out for a very long time to walk in the garden here, 
and that he is getting weaker with each day ; but perhaps 
if he could have some sweet little gateaux to eat they 
would make him feel better. All that I can do is to say 
something cheerful in a strange tongue, and he smiles 
and knows perfectly well that by night he will have his 
macaroons ! 



THE BULL-FIGHTER 

"67" IS an ex-bull-fighter, native of Guadaloupe. His has 
been a splendid physique, a long strong body; the frame 
is all too evident now and faded hollows where the black, 
hard flesh has been. 

The comrade who comes daily to sit by the sick-bed 
of his compatriot shakes his head sadly: "Is it possible 
that this disease of a foreign land can do so, and in his 
own country how strong he was ! a man stronger than 
other men and more daring than the beasts \" 

1 try to picture him a bull-fighter in some far southern 
country, his old strength restored, doing triumphant bat- 
tle in the arena in all the pride of physical combat before 
the colorful and noisy crowd. 

Far removed from the arena, the shrunken frame on 
the white hospital cot is undergoing a mortal struggle 
with an enemy more insidious and deadly than he has 
known in his strongest day. And there is only a woman 
in soft white garments and a foreign voice which 
speaks a quiet encouragement now and then, to witness 
his contest. Surely this is different from the old days, 
a dreamy look in the tired eyes seems to say, in those 
easier moments between the gaspings for breath, or after 
some painful paroxysm. What is the fight and struggle 
for? Life, or something darker and more difficult? On 
the whole it is toward Life. How he wants to live! 
Some of his old physical courage and tenacity, and life, 
the sheer love of living, is there after all. The difficult 
night passed, each day with the returning sunlight he 

81 



82 "WATER COLORS" 

motions to have his cot turned so that he may look out 
over the sea as it sparkles under his window. Flowers 
placed in a vase at his bedside do not long remain there. 
His large hand closes tenaciously over the green growing 
things, until its grasp relaxes on the warm stems in sheer 
feebleness, or the forgetfulness of sleep. The taste of 
sweet southern fruits or of sugars is still good, or that 
of little fish caught fresh from the sea nearby. He can 
no longer raise himself unaided in bed, but it distresses 
him to accept assistance. Under his direction two strong 
ropes are fastened to the iron bed-posts at his feet. The 
large wasted hands grasp the rope, and, with an effort, 
pull the great frame into an upright position. This is 
a rare triumph now, and he will smile though his head 
droop forward when it is done. 

It is quite too much effort to talk, although he knows 
some of our language. But there is one word which 
never fails him, and this and the patient smile meet every 
circumstance of his present condition. Each time that he 
eats or drinks, every time that the pillows are rearranged, 
he speaks distinctly, though it be slowly, even with an 
effort, ''Merci" 

. . . Were there no messages written or unwritten, — 
had he no family in his own country ? the infirmiere ques- 
tioned the dusky companion as they watched together by 
the bed. No, he had no family; he was different, after 
all, even at home only a bull-fighter. 

The lips on the pillow moved — we bent over him to 
catch the meaning — "Merci." So graciously, gently the 
Islander from overseas gave his rude life in France. 



FRIEND TO THE CANNIBAL 

He is tame and ordinary, this cannibal, well-fed, black, 
square and gentle as he sits in Colonial uniform holding 
the hand of my patient, while they talk in their incessant 
chatter. He seems more like a caricature than my pa- 
tient, this cannibal's friend, in clean white, erect in his 
bed, with his glossy face always amused and the large 
bulging black eyes. 

He never tires of telling all about himself in rapid 
French, accompanied always with chuckles. "Where is 
he from?" He tells me an unpronounceable land — what 
matter? He is forty years old with grown-up daughters 
at home, blacker than he himself probably, — at all events 
they're "tres jolies/' He has never got to the front, but 
is ill, very ill, of the wound in his foot where he struck 
it one day with a shovel. "Hear it? et ga fait tou jours 
zip — zip" "See it?" He will pull away the bed- 
clothes forty times a day to show you. Otherwise he 
rarely moves at all excepting his outspread black hands, 
and the bobbing woolly head. 

"The Doctor said you could walk if you wished; you 
should try crutches." 

"Why, no. Mademoiselle, never in my own country 
have I used them, and do you think that God has aban- 
donned me entirely, that I should begin here?" 

Again, I would wash his head. But it is as ever, "Oh, 
non, non, non, non," in the rising negative chuckle. No 
one has washed his head before with warm water, and it 
might possibly change all the color of his hair. 

83 



84 "WATER COLORS" 

After bed-making, I bring him the newspaper, and, 
while I dust, he reads aloud to the devoted cannibal and 
me, following with his black pointing finger. It seems 
he must know by heart now the costumes of Mrs. Wilson, 
but there are always new ones to read of, when she is 
received by the queens of Italy, Belgium and England. 

Daily then, he writes letters in a neat flowing hand, and 
directs one to the head of the 

Service de Sante. 

The gracefully flowing lines complain that he's kept 
too long here in hospital. It is outrageous, abominable; 
what is he doing here ? Two months ago even he should 
have taken ship home. 

A second letter he gracefully addresses to 

Mademoiselle VInfirmiere 

He assures her that her care for him could not be bet- 
ter than it is. He thanks her, and all his kind nurses for 
the excellent treatment provided, ill as he is- in their hos- 
pital. 

Finally one day his plea to the Service de Sante is an- 
swered, and he is at last evacue. 

"I am going today, home to my country, and I shall not 
see you again until we meet in the sky." 

I asked him whether he thought we should recognize 
each other at once? I was trying to picture him, men- 
tally, wearing wings and a halo instead of his traveling 
outfit of the broad-brimmed sombrero and baggy blue. 
His answer, flavoring somewhat of missionary teachings, 



FRIEND TO THE CANNIBAL 85 

was yet rather touching. "We should know each other," 
he said, "because, there, all are brothers and sisters— but 
I shall have to be so very good to get in/' He has enter- 
tained the cannibal and me with stories of his rather 
questionable life at home. "Mademoiselle, if you should 
see me trying to get in, that is just a devil, will you come 
and save me ?" 

Who knows at what far stage of our journey may we 
not all meet again— the Cannibal, his Friend, and I? 



TAHITIANS 

To those of us who knew these gentle Islanders, under the 
common roof of this hospital of France, their memory 
remains sweet, gentle, like their own personalities, any 
thought of them simple, yet peculiarly poignant. 

How could we forget them? Even as they came here 
among soldiers from many corners of the globe, a small 
detachment of the army of France, they remained sin- 
gularly themselves. They have not mingled with the 
others, they brought with them their own customs and 
formalities. They clung to each other, a dependent little 
band, in some things as removed from European custom 
as in a native grove of their own distant island. 

With the strong warm strain of more primitive island 
blood, they seem to have inherited also affection and ap- 
preciation simple as a child's, with manners gentle and 
and vague. In outward appearance they are all singularly 
alike, graceful and picturesque, with nut-brown skins and 
dark, liquid eyes. Only the differing contour of the faces, 
and the characteristic shape of the eyes, denote the inter- 
mingling of foreign blood, Chinese, Japanese, English, 
Spanish, American. 

I had only known Tahiti as a tiny dot on the map, in 
the blue expanse of the Pacific, until I saw it enlarged in 
the drawing of a green water-color island in a pretty 
hand-made map on the bare wall of the hospital ward. 
Our brown-skinned patients would often look up at it, and 
tell how they had come all the way over that Sea, and 
then across a continent and another Sea, — how far away 

86 



TAHITIANS 87 

it was ! And here they lay ill in hospital for weeks and 
months, often without ever having reached the real end 
and aim of the long journey ; or else they were here only 
for a shorter period of days or weeks, to regain strength in 
this warmer climate, before being sent again to their ranks 
for the next offensive. 

Their illness was diagnosed lung trouble, — and yet it 
was not quite the well-known illness either; the clever 
little Doctor with sharp eyes and pointed beard would 
shake his head even over the simplest complaint or opera- 
tion. Did he fully understand, as what European could, 
these lithe brown bodies from a different climate and con- 
dition ? 

You have never puzzled over the names on those tem- 
perature charts above the beds ; if you had, you would not 
wonder that we knew our Tahitians more familiarly by 
number. There are Muehumua a Etaeta, Faatito a Me- 
tua, Joseph Tetuarahi and many more: ''43," "56," 
"57," and all the others, they lay much of the time mere 
breathing forms, asleep under white sheets, even their 
heads under the bedclothes, to keep out the air, which in 
this southern country yet seemed to them chilly. They 
were willing to be disturbed at meal-times, however, when 
their heads would come out, like so many turtles', for a 
hot sweet drink, or the native meal of rice and fruits. So 
we came to know them, and the numbers gained individual 
significance. 

Pehe's head was seen more often than the others, for 
the Doctor ordered for "56" liquids at frequent intervals. 
Besides, "56" was sociable and quite willing to be dis- 
turbed. His round face and eyes wore a bland smile cheer- 
ful enough when we called him, but just the same he 



88 "WATER COLORS" 

would not touch the good French tisanes and teas pro- 
vided. Use a good portion of American sugar in tea or 
lemonade, however, and the Tahitian will drink almost 
anything. 

Maitia a Maitia suffered more than the others: lungs, 
heart, throat, intestines, and in all the heavy limbs. He 
would sometimes slip his hand around to the back of the 
nurse who was doing his friction, and stroke it, a feeble 
attempt at rubbing, and ask: 

"Whirohi, Maman?" (tired?) 

And when she came in with oranges and other things 
she had been out to buy he was the only one to shake his 
head and say, 

"The basket was very heavy." 

"57," with long gaunt face and hair brushed straight 
up in front, presented on his well days a positively brist- 
ling appearance, due, I suppose, to the greater energy em- 
ployed in hair-brushing. "57" had an almost continual 
cheerfulness and accompanying grin. So he had an 
unfailing interest in his progress, but none the less in his 
relapses. He inquired each morning as to just what he 
might eat: what would do him the most good today? 
Everything which he got, however, was for the best. 
Smiling broadly, he sat in readiness for the tray which 
was brought him: 

"Vous faites bien le manger." 

On the fever days he studied the eccentric lines on his 
temperature chart and talked of his diet with an ever 
greater care. One day he became so weak that he was 
given up by the Doctor, and the Priest was sent for, while 
"57" took, as we all thought, his last communion. For 
some days he lay on the verge of unconsciousness 



TAHITIANS 89 

and one could do little for him but take him milk from 
time to time; then he asked for fruit. 

"He may have anything which will please him these 
last days/' 

"57" ate the sweet fruit with sugar as though he were 
starving and called for more. From that hour his 
strength returned. "A resurrection/* superstitious 
Madame I'lnfirmiere called it. "57" seemed to regard it 
all as more of a joke than anything else, from the way he 
grinned again at her, and, in fact, at everything. He took 
a renewed interest in his temperature chart, but particu- 
larly in his meals, and sat up in bed, even, wearing his 
soldier's cap, and sewing the holes in his uniform. Such 
erratic relapses and recoveries were not unusual. The 
Doctor would often shake his head, but make no com- 
ment. 

These dark-skinned Islanders received their share of 
that same sympathy and cheer which the kind French 
townspeople provided their own Poilus of France. The 
white-haired old dames infirmieres could not treat their 
own sons more kindly. The soldier, of whatever race or 
color, was to them just ''mon petit/' — They would pet and 
mother them sweetly, but these brown faces were too of- 
ten unresponsive. 

"Qu'est-cequ'ila?" 

Perhaps it is not easily cured, a poignant homesick 
longing and heartache. 

Even among themselves these simple people are often 
uncommunicative. In the wards they lie weak and quiet, 
sad, but peacefully resigned. 

What of religious observance the adventurous Protes- 
tant preachers have taught them in their far country they 



90 "WATER COLORS" 

have brought back in their own manner to a more Catho- 
Hc, irreverent France. Each morning the Tahitians have 
prayers; their Deacon, Maiturai, stands in the center of 
the white hospital ward. He holds his tall figure beauti- 
fully erect, now he is majestic rather than graceful, the 
long dark face and features serious and noble. His hands 
are folded on his chest, he is not looking up for inspira- 
tion, but down, as though awaiting the Stoic's strength 
which comes from within. He is speaking in a deep 
foreign voice with intense earnestness and the men in bed 
have folded their hands on the white covers and are lying 
with closed eyes, — the worn features relaxed, serenely 
resigned. 

The function next in order and importance to prayers 
is that of washing. At any time of the day or night they 
may bathe in the tepid rivers and lakes at home. Here they 
revel in running water, — or they carry it, great basins 
full, to the comrades who must remain in bed. 

Those who are well enough to be up are not content 
with the half attire of the Frenchmen. They must be 
dressed in the full brown uniform of their regiment, and 
yet there is nothing of chic about their clothes. These 
are worn modestly, loosely, even as their movements are 
graceful but indefinite and easy. They will hardly con- 
sider themselves completely dressed unless they wear also 
a rose behind one ear or both. "Do you know the sig- 
nificance of a white flower worn over the ear?" Rupert 
Brooke wrote from Tahiti. "A white flower over the 
right ear means T am looking for a sweetheart.' And a 
white flower over the left ear means T have found a 
sweetheart.' And a white flower over each ear means T 
have one sweetheart, and am looking for another,' A 



TAHITIANS 91 

white flower over each ear, my dear, is dreadfully the 
most fashionable way of adorning yourself in Tahiti." 

The flowers which they love to pick in the garden here 
are for gifts and Httle ceremonies. They make flower 
wreaths, or lais, to crown one of their number who has 
just arrived or is leaving, while if a man is sick or suffer- 
ing his friends keep flowers by his bed, or hang him a 
pretty lais to look at. Little Tai with the mischevious 
restless eyes and the pleasing manners will hand us a rose 
often in saying "Bonjour" or "Bonsoir, Demoiselle." If 
we will come to Tahiti he will provide us also with a fat 
little pig for our welcome- 

Pouroto, with the matter-of-fact, round face, and the 
rounder black eyes, even with a temperature of 103 sits 
smiling and bland, but always impatient for his well days, 
when he may get up and be dressed in his bright pink 
shirt and sweep the ward until it shall be as shining and 
clean as himself. For the rest he will wait on his sick 
comrades, except on Sundays when he walks out to town, 
his shoes tied with large bows of raflia. 

From his first Sunday out with the Frenchmen, Tahiri 
returned, walking oddly enough, his arms hanging stiff 
by his coat, shding by us without even a greeting. But 
when he came out from his room again, swinging his 
arms, the little mother infirmiere guessed quickly enough. 

"But surely you have already had enough, TahiriJ why 
hide the bottles?" 

Obediently he gave them up for safe-keeping, yet start- 
ed out to town again that same evening. She ran after 
him then and beckoned him back, and when she had laid 
her hand gently on his arm, hanging his head Tahiri 
leturned with her. "Pavais ouhlie a toi," he said; some- 



92 "WATER COLORS" 

how he had reckoned without his host. And that night, 
standing in stockinged feet in the hall Tahiri uttered 
this final declaration of dependence: 

"Toi bonne pour les Tahitiens, moi plus sortir, moi 
Tester." For thee I shall stay because thou art good to 
my brothers. 

In all things the Tahitians cling to each other. Do 
something for one and they all will be grateful. Those 
who are able to be up would yet rather be near the com- 
rades who must remain in bed. They do not go out to 
seek company elsewhere. Here they have their own oc- 
cupations. Some sit cross-legged on the floor, busy over 
basket-making, weaving bright-colored raffia and straw. 
They are easily entertained, amused as children at their 
games together. 

Terimana adopted a little yellow-haired doll which he 
begged from the basket of a kind visiting lady who would 
have carried it to the orphanage next door. But no little 
girl could mother this little plaything more tenderly than 
Terimana. He props it up with a picture book to look at, 
after smoothing its clothes with the greatest care, and 
covers it carefully with tarlatan so that the flies shall not 
annoy it, and puts it to bed when he leaves the room, in 
his own big bed, the tiny yellow head well in the middle 
of the bolster which is all the soldiers are allowed as a 
pillow. 

The Tahitians like to read children's fairy tales, Contes 
de Fees, but other books and newspapers rarely in- 
terest. Bright pictures amuse them, and our Victrola 
will keep them happy for hours. The language 
of color and music is the surest one, after all, with a 
primitive-minded people; better than mere colorless 









"ILS PENSENT EN LEUR PAYS' 



TAHITIANS 93 

words, though the meaning be ever so kindly. They are 
interested in the Victrola music partly because it is 
American. 

"America is near Tahiti?" they question confidently. 
And then, "What are the songs the American soldiers 
sing?" How they enjoy the lilt of Over There and 
Johnny Get Your Gun. But among the records brought 
from America those which they especially love are the 
Hawaiian tunes, like their own music, weird and strange. 
''Like home," they tell us. 

Often it seems that a pall of silence, a mysterious hush, 
falls on the entire ward. The weaker comrades sleep 
quietly under close-rolled sheets, and I wonder if they 
dream the better, so, of their own green island across 
the sea? The group of convalescents sitting round- 
shouldered on the lounge are silent, motionless. Their 
arms are wound about each other, while, large-eyed, they 
gaze wistfully before them through puffs of blue cigarette 
smoke — thinking? of what? I wonder — 

The cheerful little French nurse bustles in to see her 
charges. Puzzled, she looks from one to the other and 
shakes her head : 

"lis ne s'amusent plus, — ils revent et pensent a leur 
pays." 



MOOHONO'S JOURNEY 

He sits erect in bed solemn, unsmiling, expressionless; 
taking no interest in anything. He is unaffected even by 
the petting of the fussy old Madame, who would so 
like to see him happy, — "le pauvre petit, si laid." Moohono 
is ugly, with his bristling black hair, his large dark, pro- 
truding eyes, the prominent teeth, and a small nose in a 
face which so often appears all flat and expressionless. 
Yet his forehead is beautiful, — high and broad, expres- 
sive even ; with much of thought and benign serenity in its 
classic physical contour. 

What he thinks, it is not easy to know. Even with his 
comrades he does not chatter much, and they will shake 
their heads over him often, and tell us a little, now 
this, now that, about their comrade, Moohono. He is so 
changed, — of course they knew him in Tahiti. He lived in 
Papeete and was employed in a bank, while they are from 
the country where they have worked on their plantations, 
cultivating the vanille. They think Moohono is richer 
than they and knows more, probably. Unlike the others, 
he knows French well, and yet he speaks with us but 
seldom, and then as though it were but another physical 
exertion, in briefest words of oracular solemnity. Again, 
in pure mischief, he will chatter in queer, sudden sounds 
to fussy old Madame ITnfirmiere. 

He plays her tricks too, and jumps at her from behind 
his pillow when she comes with the soupe. Or he makes 
funny faces when she enquires so very expressly for his 
health. 

94 



MOOHONO'S JOURNEY 95 

"Talking, talking, — why is the woman forever talking?'* 

I laid a picture puzzle on the sheets in front of Mooho- 
no, and methodically, unthinkingly, he began to fit the in- 
tricate pieces together. When he found that he had made 
a picture of the Seine, the boats and the crowds on the 
quais, there was a gleam in his eyes for the first time in 
many weeks. 

As methodically and slowly, unthinkingly almost, as 
Moohono fits the intricate pieces of a puzzle, one to an- 
other, he gets up, dresses, and makes his bed. Then he 
dusts about the room slowly, bending painfully, gasping 
for breath when these morning tasks are done. He goes 
out regularly to sit in his chaise longue in the sun. His 
cane taps before him the painfully measured steps as he 
walks to the garden. 

The kind little Doctor is pleased with Moohono's pro- 
gress. \ 

''Hardly sick enough for hospital now; what, mon 
brave f There will be a boat for Tahiti soon, and would 
you not be glad to go home ?" Moohono only looks at him 
sadly, unbelieving. 

"Tahiti? c'est loin," was all he said; for some days more 
silent than ever. Then, — "Well, yes, — if I might just go 
to Paris, now I am in France." 

"Of course, the depot is there." 

As the time drew near for him to go, Moohono packed 
and repacked his knapsack, reassorting his scanty be- 
longings. For several days I noticed him busy over ar- 
ranging and rearranging cards in a postal-card album. 
When it was done he handed me the book. 

"I may take it to look at?" 

He shook his head. "To keep," he said. 



96 "WATER COLORS" 

"But these cards are from your friends, your country." 
Moohono merely smiled wearily, — "to keep," and would 
hear no more about it. For old Madame Tlnfirmiere Moo- 
hono had a parting gift too. It was a queer-looking 
dried brown ear of something. 

"For cakes," he explained, with a grin, to her who 
cooked for him daily. 

At the mention of Paris, Moohono would slowly smile; 
this, and not his green distant island, seemed now the end 
and aim of his journey. What has Paris not meant to 
young dreamers, adventurers, wanderers, throughout the 
centuries? Even Rousseau had left the rural delights of 
Chambery to go on foot to the city of adventure. Casa- 
nova in Venice had dreamed of the women of France and 
had followed his dream to Paris. Paris, familiarly "Pa- 
name" to the poilus, has been for them a place to go in 
gay companies together, for a few days permission, frolic 
And cinema. But what, I wondered, could the gray city 
mean to quiet little strangers like Moohono, who went 
there alone in these dark days ? Anyway, he should have 
with him warm slippers for his feet, a good stock of 
cakes and other sweets, a warm blanket for the journey. 

After an anxious delay, we had news of him, but the 
letter did not come from Paris. The poor httle traveler 
had merely changed one hospital for another. 



Nogent sur Marne le 8, 8, '18. 

Na Mama iti To little Mother 

E Mama iti e Oh, little Mother 

Ua tae mai nei ta oe rata iti Thy little letter arrived and 

e ua mauruuru roa vau ia oe I thank thee very much. I 

Te faaite atu nei au ia oe e make known to thee that my 

ua taui hia (changer) tou hospital is changed; now one 



MOOHONO'S JOURNEY 



97 



fare mai; i teie nei hoe a 
(meme) to matou fare mai 
Muehumua eo Mauati. 

E Hopital ino roa teie, mea 
rahi roa te Senegalais e te 
maa aita e maitai; eita vau 
e hinaaro e faaea iunei, c'est 
trop degoutant parce que les 
Senegalais cratchent partout; 
on ne voit aucun francais 
dans cet Hopital il n'y a rien 
que des coloniales comme les 
Malgaches, Marocains, Ana- 
mites et Senegalais mea ino 
roa. 

I teie mea maitai rii au 
terara mea paruparu (fai- 
blesse) Aita roa tu e parau 
api; je suis dans les bois de 
Nogent; il n'y a personne ici 
pas meme un chat. 

Aroha oe ia Miss N. nou. 
Mile. C. e pauroa te mau 
vahine tuati 

Tirara parau 
la orana 
Na to oe tamarii ino 

Moohono. 



and the same the hospital of 
Muehumua and Mauati. 

This hospital is very bad, 
the Senegalese are very 
numerous and the food is not 
good; I do not wish to re- 
main here, it is too disgusting 
because the Senegalese spit 
everywhere. One sees no 
Frenchmen in this hospital; 
there are only Colonials as 
Malgaches, Marocoins, Ana- 
mites and Senegalese, very 
bad. 

Now I am a little better, 
and my weakness is ended. 
There is no other news; I am 
in the woods at Nogent; 
there is no one here, not even 
a cat. 

Greet thou Miss N. from 
me. Mile. C. and all the 
nurses — 

Finished talking. 
Greetings. 
From thy bad boy 

Moohono. 



Nogent sur Marne, le 16, 8, 18. 
Ma ch^re Mama: 

Ua tae mai ta oe Carte iti 
i ananahi i te poipoi e ua 
mauruuru iti roa vau; i teie 
nei ua huru maitai au area 
ra mea paruparu roa tou 
avae; e piti mau ionei hoe 
Fei no te Salle I. Muehumua 
oe Mauati ua reva raua i te 
D^pot. 

Ua aui mai nei oe iau ahiri 
a faaea vau i Paris aore e 
hoi faahau i Cannes; aita roa 
tu vau i ite te teai noa nei. 
Quand jaurais la reponse je 
vous 6crirai tout de suite. 



Ma chSre Mama: 

Thy little card arrived yes- 
terday morning and I was 
very pleased; now I am a 
kind of better, but very weak 
in my legs; two of us here, 
one man from Salle I. M. 
and M. have both left for the 
Depot. 

Thou hast asked me if I re- 
main in Paris or return again 
to Cannes; I know nothing 
about it, I only wait. When I 
shall have the reply I shall 
write you right away. I have 



98 "WATER COLORS" 

Aita roa tu tau e parau rahi not much to write; be not 

ia papai atu; eiaha oe e pea- thou vexed with me. 
pea ia'u. 

Tirara parau Finished speaking. 

Aroha atu i te mau Vahine Greetings to all the nurses, 

tuati Greetings to thee, little 

la ora na oe e Mama iti mother 

Na ta oe Tamarii ino From thy bad boy, 

Moohono. Moohono. 

In the compartment of a slow omnibus train a French 
lady noticed a sick Tahitian boy crouched in the corner 
of his seat. Could she do anything for him, she asked; 
where was he going, what was his destination? The 
Colonial soldier was gloomily unresponsive. Finally he 
looked at her with round, solemn eyes and spoke in ora- 
cular syllables : 

"Je viens de Marseilles; je vais mourir a Cannes, je 
serais bien soigne la." 

The nurse stooped to wash the long black feet, tired 
from their journey. 

"This is better than Paris, for here there is hot water 
and a Maman," he said. 

She unpacked his knapsack, taking out the soft, felt 
slippers, given him at parting. "Clean as when I gave 
you them ! Then you have been either in bed or in your 
boots, — tell me where you have been, my Moohono?" 
There was a gleam of the old mischief in the dark eyes : 
"Ce n'etaient pas des Hopitaux" was all he said. For a 
moment, only, Moohono was responsive, then, coughing, 
he settled weakly to sleep. 

For many weeks Moohono lay on his former bed in hos- 
pital, but I hardly knew him there. His old individuality 
seemed quite gone, crushed. The brown face was no 



MOOHONO'S JOURNEY 99 

longer mischievous, but had an expression indeterminate, 
sweet. The thinned black hair glistened like a halo about 
the olive-brown face. 

Moohono, soldat Tahitien, is dead in hospital. The lit- 
tle group of compatriots have placed bright flowers at the 
head and foot of the dark board coffin. Always one of 
them watches beside it. To-day they have draped the 
coffin in the tricolor, and themselves carry it into the hall 
where the last services are held. 

The old French Protestant minister in his correct 
black frock coat and gray pointed beard and friendly 
round spectacles, looks incongruously like some foreign 
and good little sprite, speaking there among the tall 
solemn Islanders with bent stoical heads. Yet the 
gentle French language has never sounded more 
gracious than now, in the sweet simple words the pasteur 
has chosen. He praises the young soldier who has jour- 
neyed so far, and who has died as nobly here in hospital 
as he would on the field. He asks for comfort for the 
friends of Moohono here about him, for the parents so far 
away in the home country. Finally the comforting all- 
familiar prayer is spoken in words of a different lan- 
guage. With bent heads and lowered voices the Tahi- 
tians repeat the "Our Father" : "E io matou Metua i te 
oa ra, ia raa to oe i'oa, . . . . " 

In the brilliant southern sunshine the little procession 
winds up the white, dusty road to the cemetery on the 
hill. A dusky group in the dark uniform of the Colonial 
walk behind the coffin, in a close little cluster, anxious to 
be as near as possible to each other and the comrade 
they are accompanying on his last journey. Behind 



100 "WATER COLORS" 

them in orderly couples come the infirmieres in their 
dark veils, the French soldiers, two and two, the vil- 
lagers who have joined on the road this miUtary funeral 
for an unknown soldier of France. 

The coffin is lowered into the loosely turned earth, 
the minister has spoken the final blessing of his church. 
He stands erect and speaks firmly and surely an inspired 
consecration. A nurse, in her dark veil, steps out from 
the gathering. With her softer lines she seems a broken, 
placid figure betokening only sympathy and kindness as 
she bends slowly down to lay bright cornflowers, pinks 
and roses of the South beside the grave. As a voice 
from the deep, mystical, a chant arises on this hill above 
the sea — the Tahitians' Burial Hymn for Moohono. 

Still a little group lingers about the freshly made 
mound ; the Colonial soldiers are placing une more bright 
bead wreath in this cemetery of France. They look at 
it critically to see that the lettering is straight "Mort 
pour la Patrie." With bent heads they walk away after 
the scattering procession. 



THE FRANCO-TAHITIAN 

Unlike the other Tahitians C — can speak easily the 
language of foreigners for it is also the language of 
his father. Here he is interpreter with his army, 
and from him I have learned many things about 
Tahiti. Now all shall know of Tahiti, he says. In the 
old days when a trip from Tahiti to France took nine to 
fourteen months and there came only vessels of odd de- 
signs, three to four decks, with their loads of con- 
victs for New Caledonia, — well that was a different mat- 
ter ! To-day all is changed, and this is principally because 
there are steamboats coming regularly from the United 
States, and the States have made a business of trade 
with Tahiti. And now with the Isthmus of Panama and 
the resuming of trade all over the world . . . when C — 
speaks so of the future of his country he talks faster, 
intensely, his eyes on the distance with the intent, far look 
of the seer. 

To-day the natives may keep very much to themselves. 
In the country they still live the primitive life of their Is- 
land. Palm branches from their own cocoanut trees form 
the roofs of their houses. They go half naked, working in 
the earth, fishing and bathing in the warm lakes and 
rivers. The first shiver of this colder climate of France 
often had no effect on these Tahitian soldiers, and it is 
this carelessness with their delicate bodies, as well as the 
different climate which has caused many cases of pneu- 
monia and bronchitis among them. These and many 
other things C — told me of his island people, but more 

lOI 



102 "WATER COLORS" 

interesting than his interpretations is the interpreter him- 
self. 

C — 's case was wholly different from any we had had 
before among the Tahitians; just nerves, the Doctor 
diagnosed it ; the slanting prominent eyes seemed never at 
rest, always seeking. . . . He was not happy at games 
among his comrades. From time to time as he talked 
with us he glanced at them with a kindly, paternal sort of 
amusement, as, graceful and dark skinned they angled 
in the toy fishing-pond or chased each other laughingly 
about the room or played at ring-toss for forfeits. 

"Poor boys, they cannot think," he said "do they ever 
even talk with you? Their ignorance is badly felt by these 
natives whom the war has taken from their homes — " 

"Where did you learn?" 

"Why, in my father's house. I had learned all that 
could be had from the schools at thirteen years, and then 
my father had me study with French and English tutors. 
I believe it is only those of us who succeed to a higher 
education can judge of the losses our people have suf- 
fered." From C — 's drawn face I looked to the others, 
happy at their games, and wondered. 

With the Tahitian's love of victrola music C — could 
not sympathize. He only smiled indulgently, shaking his 
head at his comrades as they hung over the phonograph 
entranced : 

"This popular music of Europe which they listen to 
here? Pah! I wish ypu could hear their own native 
songs of Tahiti, — even those we sing here are different. 
There we sing all through life, from morning to night, at 
leisure or at work, at rejoicings or meetings, at a wedding 
or at a funeral. This native original song is produced 




HOW THEY BATHE IN TAHITI 



THE FRANCO-TAHITIAN 103 

with a special sound and is delivered in so many particu- 
lar ways that cannot be heard anywhere else. Once the 
foreigner has heard he cannot forget." 

"Do show us." 

But when, with weird humming and strumming on their 
stringed instruments, the Tahitians would sing, strange 
and soft, a song of their own island and people, C — did 
not join with the others ; with a queer, embarrassed sort 
of smile: 

"Ah, no, — I have forgotten to sing Tahiti; I could 
show you the notes though, — ^but no, impossible to write 
down the music of such sounds, you would have such a 
very poor idea ! The most interesting are the Utes, more 
like verses and yet without any of the rules for verses 
as to their length and number. They're sung always with 
the same monotonous tone, — but only one who has 
a thorough knowledge of our language can understand 
their humor and their bitter raillery. In Tahiti we know 
well irony as happiness and sorrow — " 

An alien sophisticated personality, a stranger in this 
European country, C — finds a resting place, is at home 
and at ease among his primitive people. It is with his own 
simple countrymen, "the boys," he is strangely intimate 
and loving. Carefully anxious, he would help the lame 
Domingo to his long chair, or he would spend the after- 
noon by the sick Nohorai as he lay stretched on his cot 
in the sunny window. He talked gently as a mother 
with him, laughing over each homely j est : 

"Nohorai must have a warmer coat," he told us, — "do 
you realize how he suffers here in your cold cHmate? We 
haven't the sudden chills and gusts of wind that you have 
here. In Tahiti is always calm except for the fair 



104 "WATER COLORS" 

breeze which rises late in the day, and at night-time the 
hupe, a Hght, fresh wind will come down from the val- 
leys, just to refresh the weather and cool the air which 
was so heated at noon-time. There, all things, even the 
weather, are gentle, eh, Nohorai?" 

Caressingly he pulled the coat more snugly about the 
sick comrade: "The simple boys will not take care of 
themselves, they must be kept well covered." 

And the comrades are attached to their C — as the little 
boy to the fascinating elder brother. They have 
confidence in him, for he is good and will care for 
them. Also he is clever and his talk interesting. They 
would quote his sophisticated remarks, proud, but puzzled 
and half understanding. 

Yet the familiar contact with his own people did not 
suffice C — here. He was restless and would form many 
promiscuous intimacies. An American soldier came to the 
hospital to see him. "We had been in camp together and 
he promised to look me up when he came down here on 
leave," C — explained. "We are good friends, he and I, 
— come now! are we not quite alike in this brown uni- 
form which we both wear? So few people have ever 
heard of Tahiti," he added good-naturedly, "that often 
we, in our brown uniforms, are taken for you Ameri- 
cans." Arm in arm with his friend they started off to 
see the town. "Now surely they will think us two Ameri- 
cans," C — said, partly pleased. 

With the French soldiers, whom one would think most 
nearly his intellectual equals, C — seemed to have even 
less in common than with his own simple countrymen. 

"And yet I should feel at home here among my father's 
people. IVe been in this country before, too. It was 



THE FRANCO-TAHITIAN 105 

before the war ; my father, the little sister, and I traveled 
along the coast and were in Nice for Carnival week. We 
came through America -in 191 3 and stopped at New Zea- 
land. Their way of doing things here in France is so 
slow and different! My sister and I noticed the change 
immediately on landing at Marseilles. The men were so 
everlasting with the baggage and all the rest, and then we 
could not help noticing too that ugly Southern twang, so 
different from the French we were accustomed to hear 
in our father's house in Tahiti." 

But the father had merely laughed and known how to 
mimic this strange French talk, saying the children were 
not used to the ways of his country, that was all. 

C — shook his head with vague incomprehension: "A 
queer country this, — and as to the people, — certainly the 
Frenchmen do not understand us. And yet we are writ- 
ten about only by Europeans. Paul Huguenin has writ- 
ten probably the best book on Tahiti, Raitia la Sacree. 
Raita is an island about twenty miles from Tahiti and with 
its two mounts, Tapioi and Temehani is also the Land of 
Legends. These Huguenin has given out without altering 
in the least their native inspiration. Yet, some of the 
customs described in Raitia la Sacree are out of date 
now. Le Manage de Loti is especially interesting as it 
deals with the modern period." That he should mention 
the book so casually ! I had thought the story of the com- 
ing to this little island in the Pacific of the French Marine 
officer, his life and love there with a beautiful native of 
the Island and his subsequent casual abandonment of her 
when he returns to the life of civilization, a theme 
to be avoided. Since, for Loti and Gauguin, the native 
Islanders, like the beauty of their island are appreciated 



io6 "WATER COLORS" 

from an artistic point of view, but from the human and 
moral angle, — well they are so different, like a race of 
some beautiful wild animal even. 

With hands in his pockets, thoughtfully and coolly 
the Franco-Tahitian will discuss anything. Strained and 
hard his face seemed to harden a bit more to his words : 

"As to Rarahu's love for Loti, well one must be cau- 
tious in giving one's opinion." 

"Rather I think it is a question of the devotion of Loti 
to Rarahu, is it not?" 

He smiled reservedly. "No, I believe you mistake 
there, rather it is Rarahu's love for Loti would cause 
difference of opinion. And yet one should be gentle in 
judging this little girl of the country. You must con- 
sider the background,— custom, civilization, for any book 
naturally, and I for one can put quite aside the character 
of the author. His description of the easy life existing at 
the time is quite true, and it shows also how readily the 
natives' minds can be led. Relations of our women were 
very free with Europeans, — you in the East could not 
really understand," unlike his simpler comrades C — was 
ever politely conscious that he talked with a foreigner. 

"Well, you must not think that I at all defend these 
free relations or customs, — but — " his smile had a sort 
of broken tolerance in it, nothing of conviction. "None 
understand so well as our pretty women how to dance at 
the festivities of welcome; for these songs and dances 
natives will even come from all the districts to Papeete. 
And then you see it was the custom for the woman leader 
of the dance to kiss all the visitors one after another. So 
was Loti kissed by Rarahu, and the description of the 



THE FRANCO-TAHITIAN 107 

flight of the two by moonlight, on a canoe at sea, is beau- 
tiful, isn't it?" 

C — 's taste for French books is different from that of 
the Frenchmen. He smiled at their fondness for the 
roman; stories are all very well to pass the time, but the 
French political and literary Revues are his favorite read- 
ing. In all he wishes to learn and to inform himself. 

"I am never satisfied with what I have, I must learn 
and get on, somehow. I feel my mind drawn many dif- 
ferent ways," with a characteristic gesture drawing his 
hand across his tired eyes. 

He wished me to tell him of the best known English 
novels and then he would read them; but as the reading 
went more slowly than he liked he asked to take English 
lessons. 

''And won't you get up a class for my brothers here? 
They would rather learn English than French any day. 
They associate the language with those brave men of the 
London Missionary Society who came to Tahiti very long 
ago, and did so much good among the natives. Of course 
there have been other religions brought to Tahiti. There 
were the Roman Catholic Missionaries, then the gross 
Mormons and the Adventists. Buddhism, too, is prac- 
ticed in the Island to-day." 

"You have surely had more opportunity than most to 
know of a number of creeds; which have you thought 
most nearly expressed the truth?" 

"Of all these different cults? Well, one should be 
cautious as to giving one's opinion about diiferent reli- 
gions. Besides it would take far too long for me to begin 
to tell you what I think. Then, too, it is difficult really 
to know. Yes, indeed I can assure you I have heard 



io8 "WATER COLORS" 

many teachings and of many beliefs," his laugh was 
cynical, "and just as surely as there are many of these 
beliefs of yours, so there are many deceived and led 
wrong, poor simple people. Certainly there can be no 
question of truth!" he laughed again, almost cruelly- 
"Ah no! You must judge rehgion as you would judge 
of anything else in the world, that is by cause and effect. 
What does this religion or that one effect, how much ac- 
tual tangible good does it do? The Mormons with their 
materialism have appealed with some success to the ma- 
terialist class, — very true. But it's not this sort of results, 
church membership, and all that I mean, you understand. 
Some of the churches have done really progressive work 
among us. Their periodicals help us to know our own 
progress, and through them outsiders may learn of us, — " 
C — 's eyes gained that far-away look which they always 
wore when he talked of the future, the destiny of his 
people. They narrowed again as he continued with in- 
tensity. "It is this we need, especially, to be brought up 
to date. Tahiti has too long been an isolated Island I" 

"So you like to have foreigners come among you for 
industrial and trading purposes?" 

"Surely we have always been an hospitable people," 
with a queer, sideways smile. 

"I should think from what you tell me that you are 
to-day especially dependent on Chinese settlers ?" 

His eyes narrowed strangely: "They are too much 
among us! Let our people stay away from their res- 
taurants and their talk I It is only a foreign habit with- 
out reason makes the native wish for wine with his meals. 
No, after all, life is happiest and best in the country. The 
owner of the smallest plantation has a refreshing drink 



THE FRANCO-TAHITIAN 109 

from his cocoanut trees. The kernel is ground too and ex- 
posed to the sun with flowers whence the girls get their 
monoi, oil for the hair to keep it glossy and light, and an 
ointment for massage to make their bodies soft and ten- 
der . . . The large dark leaves, niau, we may put with 
pretty light fern in our houses, and the dried leaves we 
carry as torches to fish late at night on the reefs that en- 
circle Tahiti !" 

There came news of a plague in the Islands. Some 
thought it the result of bombardment by German battle- 
ships which had appeared off Tahiti during the first days 
of war; C — shook his head grimly: 

"Superstition, all of it; our people are dying, that is 
all; why, it is nature, and our life, a simple country 
people as we are, — and how the foreigners have played 
with us! Even the Chinese, not content with getting 
trade into their hands, wish to settle among us !" 

One day, C — did not approach us to talk as was his 
custom ; his restless face looked unusually strained, set in 
its difficult lines, as he sat apart reading his book. 

*T have had bad news," he told us simply, "and must 
have other things to think of ; I have heard this morning 
that at home my father and mother are both dead. Of 
course this is just my share; that plague — " The faces 
of his comrades, as they looked over at C — were re- 
signed and sweet with sympathy, but C — 's face was only 
plainer and more haggard. 'T cannot think," he said. 
"Who are the Gods of the Tahitians, that such trouble 
should come upon us all ; to-day we worship the Protes- 
tant God of the Christians, it is true, — but were we less 
happy in the old days? We have had many religions. 
Buddhism, even ; I can get comfort from none. . . . Well, 



no "WATER COLORS" 

at any rate your European books distract me, — for to-day 
give me some really exciting ones : I must have books and 
books and always more books that I need not think !" 

C — waited unhappily for the letter from Tahiti which 
might tell him more. "But it takes a letter three months to 
come. The worst of it is," he told me, "that our home 
is gone, my sister will have to find work. Bah, what does 
it mean when a Tahitian girl goes to work ? She is alone 
in the big city, she meets foreigners, soldiers and sailors 
off the boats ; they go to balls and dances, and then there 
are the Chinese, underhand in all . . . " He laughed 
harshly ; there was something cruel in the sound. 

"Do you think that we of native blood can ever re- 
turn to our old life happily, after we have mingled with 
you foreigners ? . . . still it is in our blood, I suppose, — 
my father came from one of the big ships, and my grand- 
father, — it is for this I know the world and many lan- 
guages and much that my Tahitian brothers do not 
know." 




TAHITIAN GIRL 



THE TAHITIANS STUDY ENGLISH 

The Tahitians' ward resembles a nursery or a primary 
school-room with the highly colored English alphabet 
charts tacked on the wall: "A is for Animal, — B stands 
for Bear" — the sounds of the elementary language are 
quite different from the current Latin ones, and the Eng- 
lish sounds are as yet wholly unfamiliar. But they are 
determined to learn. Interest in English lessons has al- 
most absorbed enthusiasm for games. Alphabet blocks, 
such as children play with, have taken the place of playing 
cards. They sit puzzling over the chart on the wall and re- 
hearsing the sounds : "E is for Elephant," and so on, it is 
grown a sort of methodical, rhythmical chant, accom- 
panied with regular nodding of the head. 

Gravely professorial, their instructress stands under 
the brightly colored charts facing a different sort of class 
from any she has met with heretofore in her long years 
of teaching varying and cosmopolitan Riviera pupils. On 
the bench opposite her sit her class: Nohorai, simple and 
conscientious, Tiafariu with his shifting clever eyes, al- 
ways the first in making responses, Teanio who thinks it 
foolish to learn, but has joined the class because the 
others have. All of them have a wondering, puzzled, 
half -amused expression, their eyes fixed intently on their 
teacher. Only Pouroto's round serious ones are rarely 
raised from a model copy-back where he traces line after 
line of symmetrical letters. The only way to teach these 
Tahitian soldiers is through object lessons; the appeal of 
color, of touch and sound. 

Ill 



112 "WATER COLORS" 

"What is this?" the instructress questions the head of 
the class, at the same time pointing to an object on 
her chart. Shyly and slowly each answers in turn : 

"It is a flower." 

"A table." 

She speaks slowly, and with emphasis: 

"Put the flowers on the table." She looks sternly from 
one to the other. Tiafariu obeys dumbly. He gets up 
slowly and solemnly; the others smile or giggle shame- 
facedly, amused at what Tiafariu will do, having but half 
understood themselves. They watch him interestedly, tak- 
ing it all as a joke or as some sort of a comical game. 
Tiafariu alone is very solemn as he lifts the flower vase 
and places it again on the table ; his eyes are fixed on the 
teacher for instructions almost with the concentration of 
some hypnotized victim. "Put the flowers on the table, — 
under the table." Tiafariu solemnly obeys, looking up at 
her for approval even when he obediently stoops to place 
the vase on the floor. 

Then Pouroto properly dusts, and the others place the 
toy tea-cups ; their teacher sees that everything is in place 
in the correct English fashion : 

"Have some tea, Tiafariu?" 

"How much sugar, Pouroto ?" 

After "Tea" the "English lesson" is terminated by in- 
struction in the etiquette of leave-taking. One brings 
"Miss" her hat, another her cane. One by one and 
solemnly they all shake hands "Good-bye." These dark, 
clumsy soldiers bowing half -amusedly, half -embarrassed 
over the hand-shaking, are like nothing quite as much as 
children at their first dancing school. 

Now even at 7 130 in the morning the Tahitians' ward 



THE TAHITIANS STUDY ENGLISH 113 

is already swept clean, and Pouroto, fully attired in the 
stiff pink shirt, which he can only afford to wear when 
the morning's chores are done, is already seated over his 
copy-book, laboriously tracing beautifully formed letters. 
The Tahitians are suddenly become talkative in loud 
sounding phrases of a strange language, and yet what we 
may recognize at times. We are greeted in a chorus of 
differently spoken "Good mornings." Pouroto, even, 
looks up solemnly from his book for a very slow : 

"Good morning. Miss — " 

The formal greeting is more expansive for Lydia, 
when she comes to clean : 

"Good morning, Sweetheart," but I digress,— for this 
Miss Warner and the English lessons disclaim all re- 
sponsibility. 



THREADS JOINED AND BROKEN 

Domingo is somewhat a stranger here where he lies in 
the ward with the other Tahitians. His longish hair out- 
spread on the pillow, is a bluer black, the dusky skin nut- 
brown and clearer. The face, in profile against the white 
pillow, is more European in type, with high forehead, a 
nose slightly aquiline, and full sweet lips. 

In the morning, when I enter the long ward to take tem- 
peratures, all but Domingo are playful and curious even in 
this. They take the glass in a clumsy, puzzled, amused 
way and it is a game with them to read the temperature 
written there, keeping the glass teasingly from me. Ca- 
poral Domingo takes the glass which I give him, daintily, 
critically, as a connoisseur takes his choicest brand of 
cigarette. He hands it to me again neatly, with an ab- 
stract air, as though it were none of his business or in- 
terest to inquire regarding the temperature of the body. 

He must have clean linen every day, but is particular 
that his nurses shall have none of this meaner care. There 
is nothing which the comrades so love as to wait on their 
Corporal, taking charge of all the grosser detail of his 
care, and hovering over him anxiously with loving looks 
and questions. Domingo chats with them in their own 
pretty primitive sounds and language. To us, in finer 
phrases of French, he explains many things about his 
Tahitian brothers. For Tahiti is the land of his love 
and his imagination. 

"And all are my brothers there — what though my father 
was an outsider, my mother was a beautiful Tahitian 
girl." 

114 



THREADS JOINED AND BROKEN 115 

He is particular to have his drinks, and dainty, sweet 
dishes at correctly stated intervals. What variation of 
hospital diet would he like best? 

"I think I have no preference," he tells us. ''Moi 
j'aime tout ce qui est hon." 

Visitors to the wards all leave Domingo of their 
choicest fruits, gateaux or flowers, and of these he ever 
shares with his friends. The kind old Doctor shakes his 
head as he stands at the bed of his favorite. 

"Are you not afraid to be spoiled, my little one?" 
*T spoiled? Why no! Surely you cannot spoil one 
who is sick ; I am sick, and so like dainty, pretty things. 
Yes truly, la vie est douce — " 

Duchini has also come a stranger among us, from 
the Italian branch of the Army at the front. He sits 
erect and unsmiling in bed. He should eat, but he will 
not. He has arrived at a French hospital when he had 
thought that he was on his way home to the mother- 
country. If he could but go to his mother, ''Mama mia," 
if he could but see her, he would be well. He will eat 
nothing: "Why?" 

*T cannot swallow French food." 
"How about macaroni ?" 

He does not believe there is such a thing in France, 
but yes, if there were, he would eat that. 

For a while he takes macaroni gratefully, cooked in the 
correct ItaUan manner,— cheese grated over the top of 
the dish. 

In order to provide better nourishment we combine the 
dish with meats and vegetables gradually. At first he eats 
in thoughtless hunger, then drops his fork and spoon 



ii6 "WATER COLORS" 

idly, but with a sly look, as though discovered like a 
naughty child, which is a good sign. For the first time 
he laughs, but will not eat. 

"But this is again a strange dish. I have not eaten so 
in Italy." 

Duchini would like to read; and for the long days in 
bed the Frenchmen have loaned him their favorite Vi- 
comte de Bragelonne. But even the thrilling adventure 
and intrigue of the Court of Louis XIV cannot interest 
the homesick soldier of Italy; he sighs after the first 
pages: "If I might only read in the Italian." And our 
literary pharmacist, with kindly intention brings him his 
own cherished copy of d'Annunzio. But from this book 
the sick Duchini turns with real horror. 

"My mother does not think it a good book for young 
people." 

After many weeks Domingo is no longer a sweet, still 
dark profile to us as we enter the hospital ward. Rather 
he is a bent, old-mannish figure in baggy white pajamas, 
wearing on the back of his head the broad sombrero to 
be protected from draft as he takes his first steps 
along the dark hospital corridor on the arm of his stout 
infirmiere. 

One day the tall gloomy Duchini, in his olive-drab uni- 
form, promenading alone in the entry, meets there the 
strange little figure in baggy pajamas, and broad straw 
hat, also promenading, but on his nurse's arm. They 
greet one another, each in his strangely accented French, 
which is at once a bond. From now on Duchini walks 
the corridors, his arm about the waist of Domingo, as he 
bends solicitously over him. 

E^ch night there is a familiar little scene in the Dress- 



THREADS JOINED AND BROKEN 117 

ings Room, born of the meeting of strangers, when Dom- 
ingo and Duchini come at the same time for treatment. It 
is a cosy time as they talk all together, there in the small, 
neatly tiled room and the cheerful lamplight, with the 
kind, white ministering nurse. 

Soon, Domingo, wearing his large straw hat, is able to 
sit out in the sun all day. He himself has organized the 
excursion to the garden. His stretcher is carried down 
by two more stalwart companions, and placed under the 
palm trees. Here in the congenial hot southern sun Do- 
mingo sits in his large straw hat, and with palm-leaf fan, 
greeting graciously anyone who will stop to speak with 
him a moment. 

"A pleasant day, is it not ? It is warm here, like Tahi- 
ti," he says, "yet I want to be gone from your country — 
I am tired — tired, after these years in the trenches, — I 
have a little brother, a soldier like myself, you know, dead 
in France. Yes, I want to be gone from here, gone to 
Tahiti, yet I shall find Tahiti changed," he mused, poking 
a lizard with his cane; "we shall no longer crawl about 
there like lizards, happy in the sun, my little sister and I. 
Since I am gone my mother has died, and also the little 
sister, of a malady like my own — yes, my poor people are 
dying, dying . . . and I wish to die in Tahiti, — my 
mother's country — " 

"Have you not a book of Tahiti?" he asked one day, 
bored with sitting alone for so long. I regret that he 
knows there is L^ Manage de Loti, and has asked me to 
bring it to him. 

"What do you think of it, Mademoiselle? A pretty 
description of our island, truly, but quelle morale! Well, 
all th€ same, it is much like that there, Loti has described 



ii8 "WATER COLORS" 

all things well — I should know. I have often thought it 
must have looked so to my father — " 

Soon Domingo, in full brown Colonial uniform and 
supported by the slim Corporal's cane, walks out in the 
evening. As he steps on to the terrace his bent round 
shoulders straighten youthfully, and he touches his cap 
in salute to the Frenchmen already seated there : 

"Bonsoir, Messieurs !" 

He sits down always a little apart from the European 
soldiers, and among his humble compatriots. The little 
group join in singing some weird, soft song of their 
island, while Domingo smiles wistfully and drums rhyth- 
mically on the floor with his cane. Night after night as 
they watch the sun go down behind the blue mountains 
the luminous eyes grow in wistfulness. Domingo speaks 
for all : 

"Here it is almost as beautiful as in Tahiti." 

Gradually, as Duchini gets up and sits in his chair by 
the window he decides : 

"After all, the palms and the coast are very like Italy !" 

In the evening he, too, wanders out on the terrace — 
a tacit concession to sociability, wearing also a French 
soldier's cap on the side of his head, which lends some- 
what a jaunty air to the uniform of dull green and drab 
olive. Yet he does not sit down among the Frenchmen, 
but hesitates before joining with any group. All are 
strangers to him here again, the poilus singing, talking 
among themselves, the group of brown Tahitians chatter- 
ing and laughing. Only one among them wistful, deli- 
cate, seems somehow a stranger like himself; among 
his own people, yet he is not. Domingo too has noticed 
the hesitating figure in the doorway. He motions Du- 



THREADS JOINED AND BROKEN 119 

chini to him. After this all through the long evenings 
Domingo's chair is drawn close to Duchini's. In the com- 
mon French language, which both speak as educated 
strangers, their talk is in the 'long, long thoughts of 
youth," critical of France and differently developed na- 
tures,' each citing his own ideals and love of the home 
country. 

"Tell me how old are you, Domingo?" 
"Just twenty-one,— why?" 

"I wondered because the Frenchmen always call you 
'le petit vieux',— hut you have always seemed to me about 
jny age,— nineteen,— I might have said." 

"The Frenchmen,— what do they know? Their laugh- 
ter is hard and they cannot see the heart. But you, dear 
Duchini, you come from a more friendly, sunny country 
like my own, you look to the heart, you understand." 

"Alas,— how far the war has brought us from our own 
dear countries, Domingo." 

"But just think of this, that it has brought us two 
together, Duchini. I come from the West,— all the way 
from Tahiti, and you from the East and old Italy, and 
here we are met like two brothers. Does not your reli- 
gion teach you so, Duchini? Only it says all are brothers, 
and here are you the only one I have found, the only one 
of a different country, I mean. Then I have always won- 
dered so much, Duchini, about those German boys we are 
told to kill, our age perhaps,— who can tell ?" 

"I have wondered, too, Domingo,— you know that al- 
ways makes me think especially of my mother at home, 
and I wonder if these boys have mothers,— I have often 
told you of my mother, have I not? I fear never to see 
her again." 



I20 "WATER COLORS" 

"Now do not cry, my Duchini, I am sure you will see 
your mother. Think how near lies your Italy \" 

"Yet I may not go home, but am sent from one hospital 
to another, — I shall have an operation at the next. Have 
you not thought of this, Domingo, that we no longer 
measure by distance and time as we are taught at school, 
but by Life and Death, by pain and sorrow? Here are 
you but twenty-one and I just nineteen, and yet we must 
sit and talk as old men together." 

"Indeed yes, Duchini, it is the war that makes old. 
You know the very thought of war always seems to me 
all that is grown gray and ugly and old, like an hideous 
old man that I see sometimes in my dreams when my 
wound pains me especially. Now children do not think 
of wars, but are always just happy and at play together. 
And this war now, is it not a war of the oldest countries? 
Why, in our young, sunny country was no thought of 
war." 

"Do not misunderstand me, Domingo. This war had to 
come, — only we of Italy are too hot-blooded, quickly 
roused; we cannot endure this coming and going, this 
long-drawn-out suffering ! Let us fight at once to the end 
and die rather ! No soldier of Italy fears to die !" 

"Yet, why, why die, my Duchini? Is it not a sinful 
waste of sweet Life, when somewhere yet are things to 
enjoy, flowers and music and soft red lips, — red as that 
sky — look toward the sky of the sunset, Duchini ! There 
lies Tahiti !" 

Night after night, when the red sun has gone down 
behind the blue mountains, Domingo and Duchini, the 
stranger comrades, separate in the grayness of dusk. 

"Buono Nott€, Domingo mia." 



THREADS JOINED AND BROKEN 121 

"la ora na, Duchini." 

Duchini has gone home to his mother, and Domingo 
is pronounced evacue, and is to take the first boat saihng 
from Marseilles. The last few weeks in hospital have 
been happy ones; all who know him here wish to show 
him kindness before he goes. 

He is asked out to tea, to eat ice cream in the village of 
an afternoon. The delicate slim figure of the stranger is 
become almost as familiar in the little town and in the 
provincial parlors of the kind inhabitants as it has been 
in hospital. Everyone is wishing Domingo "bon voyage/' 
His pack is already too heavy to carry, and he has given 
of his presents to the less fortunate who remain behind. 

From Duchini, at home with his mother, we have not 
heard again, but this is the only home which Domingo has 
known in France. His thoughts turn back to us on every 
stage of his journey. Graceful, beautifully written little 
notes reach us from Paris, — then Marseilles. 

"Juste 2 mots a la hate pour vous souhaiter le bon- 
jour et une bonne Sante. Ici je me porte tres bien 
et j'espere que ma Carte vous trouvera aussi en 
bonne sante — Au Revoir — et recevez mes meilleures 
sympathies et mon amitie. 
Bon Souvenir 

de votre petit Tahitian qui pense a vous" 

"Marseilles le ler Novcmbre, 1918. 
Chere Maman, 

Je vous envoie cette Carte pour faire savoir que 
je suis a Marseilles depuis hier a 4 hr de Tapres midi 
mais dans un etat fatigue. Mais aujourd-hui je me 



122 ^'WATER COLORS" 

sens beaucoup mieux et demain je serais tout a fait 
sur mon scant. Pour aujourd'hui il n'y a rien de 
nouveau. Chere Maman e tehoi au ia oe iti ta oe 
tamaiti." 

Domingo was looking again on the bluest ocean over 
which he might soon sail to his own dear country. 

But the boat did not sail ; month after month it did not 
sail. At length it would not sail, not this year. Domingo's 
bright postal cards, his carefully penned little notes, 
reached us less frequently, and at length held only good 
wishes for us. 

"The boat did not sail/' Domingo said, when he was 
returned to us with a hospital detachment. '*I shall not 
see my country again." And after this he rarely spoke. 

His hopes and little enthusiasms had gone; only a 
feeble, failing spirit seemed yet to cling gently to the 
gentler niceties of life, things of smallest meaning. He 
asked to have his long finger-nails polished until they 
showed a soft pink on the white sheet, and he would 
look pleasurably at the brown hands as they lay there be- 
fore him. The last day of his life he spoke of the deli- 
cacy of the sweet southern pear cooked whole for his 
lunch. He wished to live, and his life ebbed out slowly; 
it was fought out rather, a fight to the last between the 
brave, youth-loving spirit and the too delicate body. 



POMA TEA 

(light and shadow) 

The long, dark hospital lay behind her as she came 
out on the palm-covered pathway, a blue-veiled and nun- 
like figure, her eyes looking wearily down on the path be- 
fore her. 

"laorana, do you remember me?" 

He seemed to have come from the bluest of seas or the 
red, sinking sun, as she looked up and saw him, tall, 
brown-faced, brilliant-eyed, standing there under the 
palm-tree. 

He held out a large hand shyly, and she gladly gave 
him her own. 

"Indeed I remember, it was you who made me this bas- 
ket, and what were the colors I loved best you asked me, 
and then you embroidered it so ; all intertwined with blue 
and pink string, and your own pretty words in Tahitian. 
See how I carry it to town now to market." 

"Mademoiselle, I have come to tell you laorana, — the 
boat will soon sail for Tahiti." 

*Tt was good of you. Bonne chance, hon voyage!" 

"Mademoiselle, yet it is this I wish to tell you, — please 
stop just a moment," he stood twisting his shabby blue 
cap in his hands, and looked down at the pathway. 

"Yes?" 

"When I was ill you made me sweet cakes, and 
then I liked you best always. It is a year ago since I 

123 



124 "WATER COLORS" 

first saw you, when you cared for me here in the hospital. 
I wrote to my father at home, to know if I might bring 
with me a wife from France. The mails are slow to 
Tahiti, and only now his letter has come, and it says yes, 
I may bring you !" 

His eyes, too brilliant above her, made her look down 
at the pathway. His assurance was sweet and primitive 
and she hesitated for an answer : 

"All my thanks, but your country is very far." 

He pointed to the sea : "Just over there." 

"I know but, — well, will you carry my basket to market, 
just for to-day?" 

They went down through the deserted gardens, and 
laughing, he pointed up at the broad leaves over their 
heads : 

"In Tahiti I am cultivateur, it is good to work in the 
earth." 

"I love to pick flowers." 

Out on the walk by the sea they mingled with simple 
fisher-folk mending their nets, busy over the boats drawn 
up on the shore. 

"There, — la-has, I have a boat to fish on the river," he 
told her, "and then, sometimes, I go into the big city of 
Papeete. It is a beautiful city because it is by the water, 
and one watches the boats as here, all the boats coming 
and going," he pointed eagerly. Cannes he thinks beauti- 
ful, too, because the ocean is here. Yes, and she, too, 
thinks the ocean most beautiful. 

They walked on through the gay little streets of the 
town, he silent and dark, unable to talk among strangers ; 
she busy with details and her basket, stopping for flowers 
and fruits, greeting old shopkeepers and townspeople. 



POMA TEA 125 

When they returned alone up the pathway he spoke 
again. 

"In Tahiti we have fruits bright as the oranges in this 
basket, and the fei, which are sweeter." 

Briefly she gave him her hand, and turned quickly from 
him, to where a light twinkled, and she went in by the 
safe, narrow doorway. He stood without; stoical, dark, 
unremonstrating. With bent shoulders he turned down 
the darkening pathway. The light was gone from the sea. 



THE TAHITIANS SAY FAREWELL 

The Tahitians' boat will soon sail from Marseilles, and 
they have asked all of us in the hospital to a farewell 
concert. 

The wooden refectoire benches are in place in dull 
rows, one behind the other; but this afternoon the high 
glass chandeliers are hung with yellow mimosa. The 
graceful, drooping sprays mingle prettily with the bright 
glass pendants, there is a light as of southern sunshine 
over the long dark hall. How is it that when Tahi- 
tians arrange the flowers, which they love, they always 
seem quite inevitably and beautifully in place, almost as 
though growing there? 

At the door, as we go in, there stands a silent Tahitian 
soldier who solemnly hands each infirmiere a red rose. 
Our Tahitian patients are seated in a dusky semicircle at 
the end of the hall; they are in the famihar brown uni- 
form, but each is wearing a crown of bright flowers, and, 
a sign that they are in especially festive mood, a rose 
behind each ear. With them sits their infirmiere in white 
dress and veil, she who knows their language, and they 
know some of hers. They all look to her, intent to catch 
the tune and words, as she leads the chorus into her own 
sweet Italian airs, which they have often practiced to- 
gether and accompanies the singing on her guitar. The 
stranger voices follow hers with a somewhat embarrassed, 
but poignant, sweetness, into that air of old Italy : 

"Santa Lucia, — Santa Lucia — *' 
126 



THE TAHITIANS SAY FAREWELL 127 

Then little Laurent, holding his large stringed instru- 
ment, decorated with a long garland of flowers, stands up 
in the centre of the semicircle, and, facing his comrades, 
with his back to the audience, and nodding his head with 
its flower-crown enthusiastically, and stamping his foot in 
time, he leads the little company in singing. And in ac- 
cordance with the Tahitian custom of singing spontaneous 
songs to fit every occasion, Laurent Tarahu, their leader, 
has composed these verses of farewell : 

Aue hoi i te mauiui rahi Helas la grande peine 
I te moeraa ia matou atoa Que 9a a ete pour nous 
To matou fare, o tei nohohia De quitter notre maison 
E matou te oto nei a matou Ou nous avons demeure 
I to matou taaeraa. Cette separation nous a 

cause beaucoup de cha- 
grin. 

They have spoken their gratitude in music and words 
quite their own; the enthusiastic applause which follows 
seems to put a stop to strange, weird tunes, vibrations 
but scarcely awakened. 

After all they face an audience of foreigners, — even 
their "comrades," the poilus, have smiled at times. There 
is a hesitant pause, — then, smiling themselves, a little 
shamefacedly, the performers begin again. They are not 
forceful singers, at best, but sweet and moody, — and as 
they sing of Tahiti, their own land of flowers and love 
and sunshine, they become gradually self- forgetful. 

Charmante terre de Tahiti 
O douce mere! O doux pays! 



128 "WATER COLORS" 

O douce terre de f ratemite ! 

O doux pays, O doux pays de liberte! 

And then as always there is a refrain : 

O Tahiti ! pays d'amour 
Tu regne dans nos coeurs, 
O Tahiti, O doux sejour 
A toi les courronnes de fleurs ! 
Pays de ma naissance. 
Pays cheri de France, 
Tu fus ma royaute 
Garde tou jours ta liberte. 



Again 



La has sous le ciel bleu 

Tout pres des cieux, 

Noye par le soleil 

Brillant, vermeil, 

Terre de verdure 

OQ la nature est un tresor. 

C'est un jardin fleuri 

Ou tout sourit, 

Les femmes et les fleurs 

Ont des couleurs 

Fraiches et jolies. 

Qui font envie a tous les coeurs. 

Refrain 

Cest la terre Tahitienne 
Le pays des amours, 
Et cette terre est la mienne 
Je Taimerai toujours. 



THE TAHITIANS SAY FAREWELL 129 

There is a restless movement as of smothered laughter 
on the benches where the Frenchnien are seated, as the 
tall serious Faatea advances from the little group of 
singers, and with solemn face and gestures makes us a 
speech in the language which we cannot understand. Then 
Laurent explains in French the words of their leader 
Faatea : 

"The Tahitians have come very far, and here, in a 
strange country, many of them have fallen sick. Yet 
even here they have found friends and have been re- 
ceived kindly and cared for tenderly. They wish to 
thank the hospital and the infirmieres ; they have some lit- 
tle gift for each one, it is not much, — a string of yellow 
shells for one, a seed crown for another. Now they are 
returning home again across two seas, but on their long 
journey and all their lives they will never forget us, but 
carry memories always in thankful hearts." 



TAHITIAN LETTERS 

[Original Letters from Convalescent Tahitian soldiers to 
their former Infirmiere in a Hospital of the French Red 
Cross. Their letters are illustrative of their return voyage 
from Marseilles to Tahiti, and of their arrival in Tahiti, sum- 
mer of 1919.] 

(Translated from the French and Tahitian) 

le 23 Mai, 1919. 
Abord de TEl Kantara 

A ma petite mere bien aimee : 

I write unto thee little one these little words of 
greeting for thee and for the little children who remain 
in thy hands. Oh, dear little Mother, since the day we 
departed from thee little one, there sprang up in our 
hearts sorrow and great pain. Alas, oh, my dear little 
Mother, when I think of thee and of thy little good works 
and of thy little songs by thee taught to me — alas, the 
pain, O dear little Mother, to remember thee every day 
and every morning when you came into our room and 
said to us ''larana." Then "Rascals" you called us, your 
playing and romping children! Naughty, naughty. 
Mother! Yet, alas, oh, thou little one, I wish that we 
two could sing again as we were wont to do In questa 
barchettina and thy little song by us sung for thee Para- 
hi oe^ and "No, Sir" and especially "Farewell." 

1 This is the song to which Laurent Tarahu refers in his 
letter. It was composed, translated, and put to music 
by him and sung by him and his comrades when parting from 
their nurse who had cared for them in hospital. The song 

130 



TAHITIAN LETTERS 131 

Well, dear little mother, I will tell thee how we find 
ourselves here on board since our departure from Mar- 
seilles. The two first days we were a little sea-sick and 
now we are very well, even the sickest, as for example, 
Louis, Rua, Tarihaa and the others, are also very well. 
Chere Maman, I do what thou hast told me to do in regard 
to the little bags,^ but there was not enough for all the 
sick of Continental. At the last they were all very well 
pleased and I explained to them that there was not enough 
for everyone, and even so they answered me Thank you 
for our dear little Mama. 

Alors, dear little Mother, I conclude my little speech 
while I communicate greetings to thee for all the children 
of Tahiti who remain with thee every day and who are 
sick of the great sickness. When I get to Tahiti I shall 
write again to thee and will let thee know the condition of 
the little families whom the Spanish cough (influenza) 

is typical of the custom of these Islanders, who, at home, com- 
pose little songs for every occasion and then meet to sing 
together: 

TE AROHA O TE TAMARII THE GREETING OF THE 
lA MAMA ITI HERE— CHILD TO DEAR LITTLE 

MOTHER 

Parahi oe e Mama here Adieu Maman cherie 

Te moe nei hoi matou Nous nous eloignons 

Eita oe e moe raa Nous ne t' oublierons jamais 

la matou taatoa. Aucun de nous t'oublierons 

jamais. 

No te rahiroa to oe here Parce que tu nous a 

la matou taatoa Beaucoup aim4s 

E mihi matou ia oe Nous te pleurons 

E to matou metua e! O notre chere M6re. 

1 Comfort Bags given to Laurent Tarahu to distribute to 
the comrades on shipboard. 



132 "WATER COLORS" 

has attacked. Now I kiss thee for my great affection for 
thee, and for thy great affection for me. Farewell, 
Mother dear. 

Thy affectionate child, 

Laurent Tarahu. 

(Translated from the French) 

Mahina, i6 July, 1919. 
To my dear little Mother : 

I salute you in the name of the Father of the Son 
and of the Holy Ghost — amene.^ 

Dear little Mother, we arrived at Tahiti the 28th of 
June at one o'clock in the afternoon, and at that time we 
are sad, because we had no longer any fathers nor any 
mothers, nor even any brothers and sisters, our country is 
no longer numerous; it is nothing but children.^ In the 
country districts there are only children, poor country. 
For our children^ we are very happy since Marseilles to 
Tahiti the sea is calm. On our trip we lost 5 Tahitians, 
I Caledonian sharpshooter and one little girl. In our 
family I lost two aunts, two uncles and a cousin and 
numerous relations, but God will aid us. I have not much 

1 This is a form of salutation often used by Christian 
Tahitians as is the following: "Hail (or greeting) unto thee 
in the name of the True God when we meet in this letter." 

2 The 1918-19 epidemic of influenza was especially severe 
in Tahiti, partly because of the delicate lungs of these 
Islanders. It caused the death of a great part of the native 
adult population. 

3 These soldiers referred to themselves as "the children of 
Tahiti." 



TAHITIAN LETTERS 133 

news to give you. I hope that you will come to Tahiti in 
a few years, we shall be very happy if you will come to 
us. 

Send also news of yourself and of your family. I and 
Teamo very well, as also my comrades. 

I end my little letter in wishing you with a good hand- 
shake. 

Thy^ son Muehumua Etaeta who will never forget thee, 
thou remainest always in my heart to the end of my life. 

Write me your letter half in Tahitien. 

Te aroha atu nei maou taatoa mau tamarii faehou Tahi- 
ti ia oe Mama iti.^ 

The greetings of us all, the soldier children of Tahiti, 
to thee, little mother. 

(Translated from the French and Tahitian) 

Papeete, August 19, 1919. 
A ma chere Mama iti here. I a or a na oe i te fareiraa 
na roto i teie nei rata iti Aroharaa ia oe iti e i te mau 
tamarii rii tei parahi i pihai iho ia oe. 

1 Throughout the letter, up to this point the personal pro- 
noun "vous" has been used by the writer, this being the first 
time he makes use of the more informal form of address. It 
is interesting to note that the Tahitian, when he writes or 
speaks in French, makes no distinction between the use of 
"vous" and "tu," you and thou. Probably our difference 'in 
form of address denotes nothing to him, as, reflecting the 
communistic spirit of equality between all born Tahitians, 
they do not use the form "you" for addressing one person, 
as it is used in other languages. 

2 Those more educated Tahitians who knew the French 
language seemed to be the prouder of their own native tongue. 
They were zealous teachers, and in their letters, when writ- 
ten in French, would never fail to write some passage in 
Tahitian with the French translation, of which the English 
is given here. 



134 'WATER COLORS" 

Hail to thee in the meeting within this little letter. Grace 
to thee little one and the little children who dwell beside 
thee. Now shall I tell thee how I find myself here in my 
own country? I must tell thee that I am in very good 
health as is also my little family and all the population.^ 
Since our arrival in Tahiti up to the present time we have 
been feted continuously. We have not known what to 
do, we are not able to refuse for fear of annoying them. 
And now I am in a store as employe in order to earn my 
living and that of the little family of Tarahu.^ Since I 
have lost my poor father there remains at home my poor 
mother, who is beginning to age, and my little sister, so 
that I have three people to care for and in order to care 
for them one must work in order to have money to buy 
food. So that now I replace my poor father, I direct the 
house as he. Now, dear little mother, we are separated 
one from the other, but our friendship is ever kept in our 
hearts. I can promise thee also that I shall never forget 
thee because thou hast been a mother to me in thy kind- 
ness and thy love toward me and toward all the sick under 
thy care, it is this that I keep in my heart an eternal 

1 A more cheerful report than that given by Muehumua 
Etaeta in the letter preceding. This version of the present 
writer, Laurent Tarahu, is more typical of the Tahitian who 
will usually express himself optimistically, whether the facts 
warrant it or not. So the sick who wrote to us from other 
hospitals would tell us that they were "as well as possible" 
even when in reality they were in a dying condition. 

2 As we might say the Brown, the Smith family, etc. 
Laurent Tarahu was a Catholic Tahitian and hence had both 
a Christian and a surname. In the pure Tahitian names the 
son has the name of the father as: Tahua a Maru, Tahua the 
son of Maru. There are also those names which the 
Tahitians call "afix," half English, American, Chinese or 
French, as Clark, Andre; Vidal, Paul; Cho Chong, Amim. 




THE FAMILY OF A TAHITIAN SOLDIER 



TAHITIAN LETTERS 135 

souvenir of thee chere mere Peretane^ well beloved by the 
Tahitians. 

Well, then, dear little mother, I received thy little let- 
ter yesterday, with a picture of the Blessed Virgin, which 
gave me great pleasure, and this letter arrived just three 
days after her Fete of the 15th August; we had a proces- 
sion at Papeete in front of her Grotte. 

Now we would speak of our sick.^ I think 
they are not too ill and also we shall always hope to see 
them, these unhappy young people who also hope to see 
their parents who await them impatient to know that they 
are well and safe. 

Maintenant, chere Maman, farewell thou and the little 
children who dwell beside thee. Tell them to take courage 
unto themselves and pray to God that He help us. 
Farewell Mama, 

Laurent Tarahu. 



1 Peretane, the Tahitian for "English" may well come from 
the French "Bretagne." 

2 Those Tahitian soldiers who were too ill to make the re- 
turn trip to Tahiti and remained in France in a military hos- 
pital, under the care of the nurse to whom this letter is writ- 
ten. The writer had not had news of them since he sailed 
from France in May and did not know that at the time of his 
writing, August 19, 1919, all had died with the exception of 
Nohorai a Haupuni, the last to go on August 20, 1919. His 
death, and that of the others is recorded in another chapter. 



THEIR LIVES ARE LIKE THE LEAVES 

"Their lives are like the leaves 
Scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown." 

— Sassoon. 

There is a strong, hot wind blowing in from the sea, the 
yellowed leaves, blown here and there with the white sand 
and dust, are falling, falling . . . 

Nohorai, his chair drawn close to the window, is look- 
ing out. He seems intently and earnestly watching the 
leaves whirl through the air, and I wonder if perhaps the 
phenomenon of autumn, even the slightest indications of 
it, such as we have here, can be quite unknown in his far 
country. Nohorai has raised his long thin arm in indefi- 
nite gesture, but suddenly the hand is pointing at some- 
thing intently and directly ; it seems to be at a large leaf 
on the tree in the garden. 

"What is it?" 

"Tahiti!" he cried, and then started up suddenly, his 
whole body seemed for a moment to follow the pointing 
hand and the intent, far look of the eyes. Then, shaking 
his head, Nohorai fell back again on the pillow, and the 
upraised arm struck down on his chest almost savagely. 

Nohorai asks to have his bed moved away again into 

the dark corner. To-day he will look out no longer at 

the falling leaves. 

***** 

It is hot, late summer, the worst time for the poor con- 
sumptives. One after another they are dying like 
withered leaves swirled away by the dry, hot mistral. 

136 



THEIR LIVES ARE LIKE THE LEAVES 137 

Still Nohorai lies between Tairua a Tehautapapa and 
Teiho. Teiho a Matehau, he with the large, dark eyes and 
the fine white teeth, is known as the gentlest even among 
Tahitians. For days he had not been able to take nourish- 
ment ; he always felt sick. This morning at 6 130 he took 
his coffee and milk by spoonfuls, then he settled himself 
with his cheek in his hand to sleep, and asked the infir- 
miere to cover his face. Half an hour later the nurse re- 
turned to take the morning temperature and removed the 
sheet. The lips were white, the hands cold to touch. 
Nohorai, lying on the next bed, looked up at her and 
sighed. 

Tairua a Tehautapapa had lain out of doors in the gar- 
den. He was brought back to bed and then weakness came 
and the greater and greater difficulty in breathing. His 
nurse turned from him and said to the friend Terimana, 
"Will you get your Bible and read?" . . . She asked of the 
dying boy if there were anything he wanted? ... Or was 
he no longer there? . . . 

"... Pure iti," she thought she understood him. 
"Pure" means prayer in Tahitian and "iti" is small. "So 
he wants some little prayer." Terimana was searching in 
the Bible. Domingo on the next bed said : 

"No, he asks for some of that puree such as he had at 
lunch, have you still some of that potato?" But Tairua, 
feeling her move away, caught at her dress. After all, 
thought the nurse, perhaps it was the prayer he wanted : 

" E io matou Metua" she began the "Our Father," and 
very faintly he said : " . . . to oe ioa," Thy Name. ... 
Then Tairua spoke again in a feeble voice, "Mauruuru/* 
Thank you, and then "Nohorai." Those who bent over 
him repeated the name so that the friend lying near heard 



138 "WATER COLORS" 

and answered. . . . Once more Tairua spoke to his 
friend : 

"la ova na," it stands for every kind of Greeting, and 
also it is Good-bye. 

Nohorai a Haupuni was left alone. He had always 
seemed more affectionate than his comrades and more 
homesick for Tahiti than any : but now this vague and in- 
definite longing seemed to have taken a new turn ; Nohorai 
wished to go, go anywhere to get away from this place 
where he had seen his comrades die. The desire in- 
creased as the already too feeble strength diminished from 
day to day. 

"Oui, c'est joli, Thopital, tout est bien, mais, pour moi 
pas bien." 

Then in Tahitian he would explain that for his "tino," 
body, the air here was so bad. He would strike his chest 
violently because he could not get well, he would show his 
thin arms and say: 

"When I came here they were not like this, and now — 
tu vols, tu comprendsf" 

He who was so gentle would raise his fist in the air 
and shake it in wrath, and then not knowing against 
whom or what to direct his anger, would let it drop 
again. 

These were only outbursts of bitterness. Through it 
all he clung like a weak sick child to its mother, to his de- 
voted nurse, with a pathetic confidence in what she might 
be able to do for him. When she was obliged to leave him 
for a short while he welcomed her back. 

"Mau maururu vau, i iti Maman," (I was glad to see 
Mama) and then, making a great effort in French : 



THEIR LIVES ARE LIKE THE LEAVES 139 

*Tci Mama 'ya 'ya 'ya — quelque chose ; pas ici Mama *ya 
rien Hen!" 

He did not speak reproachfully at all, but as one who 
sadly and gently states a fact. He did not wish her to 
leave his side, and to emphasize the "rien," he shook his 
right hand in the air with all the fingers, such long thin 
fingers, well spread out. 

For three nights consecutively the nurse had not left 
him for a moment. She had kept her place beside him 
continually fanning, then, almost exhausted, on the 
third night she asked his permission to leave him. But he 
was firm and gentle ; he feared she was tired and took the 
fan out of her hand, but said she must stay. She was to 
sit on the chair by the bed and put her head on the bed 
and "taooto," sleep, but she was to stay ! So she remained 
there beside him sleeping at moments from sheer exhaus- 
tion, and then rubbing his chest from time to time, while 
the Annamite attended to the fanning and the spittoon. 

Nohorai complained once or twice and then he con- 
sented to an injection of ether, and later of huile camphre, 
but he was on no account to be given an injection of 
morphia, for he knew what that meant, and he wanted to 
live ! Early in the morning he said that his heart hurt him, 
and then he must get up and lie in the chaise longue by 
the v/indow again. We arranged him in it, his old place, 
and I wondered if he noticed as he looked out, that the 
tree outside was swept quite bare of leaves after the sum- 
mer's winds. His breath became more and more labored 
and he suffered ; — finally at six o'clock he consented to an 
injection of morphia. 

After that he hardly said anything more, — sometimes 
"Mama iti/' as, he struggled to smile, — to live. 



140 "WATER COLORS" 

On a plain marble slab which stands amidst yellow 
flowering mimosa trees among the gray hills of Grasse 
there are written names over which you might pause and 
wonder : 

Teiho a Matehau 
Maitia a Maitia 
Tarevaura a Tapare 
Tairua a Tehautapapa 
Alfred Domingo, Caporal ^ 
— and, at the last, 

NOHORAI A HaUPUNI 

And below the names one reads : 

"Le Seigneur Dieu Les Eclairera 
Ils Verront Sa Face/' 

Apocalypse XXII, 4-5. 



PART III. 
FOYER-BIBLIOTHEQUE 



AU FOYER 

Here there was no organization Foyer du Soldat. The 
medicin chef sent quite unofficially for "les dames Ameri- 
caines/' and we talked it over: what might be done? 
There followed much discussion: we could not furnish 
them a living-room, too expensive, of course, out of the 
question! How if we merely left them the simplest 
things, magazines, checkers, cards and writing materials? 
But there was no room; where were the requisite tables 
and benches, even ? We should find too after a little time 
the things would inevitably disappear ; a hospital of close 
on to 400 men, ''vous savez" I Then too this might upset 
military discipline, — the men should have recourse to 
nothing, no, not even books and games to tempt them 
from the wards in the mornings, when the doctors made 
their visits. How if we should come in the afternoon, 
then, to provide the books and games, music and the rest 
in certain hours ? Well, there was a solution ! The men 
could even aid us to move tables from their refectoire 
down to the long gray hall on Mondays, Wednesdays and 
Saturdays. And would it be possible to open our Foyer on 
their jour de Van? The men had no Christmas cele- 
bration, even. 

Listless groups hung around the long bleak hospital 
hall; charwomen in dirty white, soldiers inactive and 
despondent; only something in the heavy inert faces 
seemed wondering, — what was it we had come to do 
among them? 

A soldier in neat poilu's blue stepped from somewhere 
143 



144 "WATER COLORS" 

in the crowd to put himself completely "a voire service" in 
our predicament. With conveniently long arms he was es- 
pecially agile and obliging about hanging flags and pic- 
tures; an ex-performer from the Cafe Chantant, he had 
an eye for the dramatic and the decorative evidently. 

A dark, rough-looking man with baggy trousers, turned- 
down collar and yellow tie, wearing a low slouched hat, 
came in from the garden, an uprooted palm tree in either 
hand. He was not a brigand, but only an Italian con- 
valescent, with his own ideas of decoration. The palms 
were to be tied to the high central columns ahd were to 
frame our pictures. He began to cut the branches apart 
vehemently,— and we could only hope that we should not 
all come in for military reprimand as destroyers of the 
property. In his aesthetics, at least, the Italian is always 
right; with palms tied to the pillars and framing our 
Generals, the hall began to look genuinely decorated. 

On the jour de Van, the first of January, 19 19, there 
were gathered together in the great hallway filled with 
sunshine, soldiers gay and companionable, cooks in their 
white aprons, charwomen awkward and ugly, chic and 
pretty. There were officers and doctors gorgeous and 
beautiful in their best uniforms, all in honor of their 
jour de fete. A dashing chasseur seized a white 
aproned cook about the waist and whirled him around 
and round to the strumming victrola waltz. From the 
militarized cook we had military permission to serve 
something more than the military fare on their jour de 
Van. The men filed by the great copper kettle, each one 
with his quart, for a cup of steaming hot chocolate and 
our wish of "Bonne Annee!" 

"Salon de Lecture et de Jeu," — the gay red and blue 



AU FOYER 145 

sign is really not as obvious as it looks, — ^there is a fine 
distinction in words here! Our "afternoons" could, it 
is true, be spoken of as "Foyer," but this is not, strictly 
speaking, correct. The word Foyer in popular parlance 
denotes also that there are refreshments ! Now we could 
not afford to lay emphasis on this aspect of our impromp- 
tu entertainment ; a "gouter" was sometimes provided and 
sometimes not. According to the traditional salon this 
more material factor is quite accidental ! 

There is tobacco smoke and gay victrola music, bright 
colors and sunshine, dark corners and dim electric lights, 
incongruous groups and figures. Men black, white or 
brown, they are there on crutches, on stretchers, careless- 
ly dressed in baggy pajamas, the jaunty soldier's cap, odd 
bits of uniform blue and red, shuffling hospital slippers. 
The bleak, bare hall is become the common living-room of 
them all : men from Tahiti, New Caledonia, Madagascar, 
Reunion Island, as well as the poilu of France. Together 
they gather over the blazing open fires, chattering, laugh- 
ing, roasting chestnuts, and enjoying the hot, luscious 
marrons. They talk quietly, one with another, gazing 
silent into the flames. Here is at least an approach to 
the foyer, hearth, heart of the home ! 

Again, it is a ''salon" of habitues, talking together or 
gathered about one hostess or another, listening and talk- 
ing of books, of any question of interest. Some prefer 
not to talk; they listen to the music, they play a game. 
And is there any incipient disorder: "Such games and ac- 
tions are for the gardens, but not for the salon, n'est-ce 
pas?" And we have not needed to say more. 

The Tahitians will hang over the phonograph for hours 
together, listening intently, humming accompaniment to 



146 "WATER COLORS" 

the taking European air. Or one of their number will 
drum dreamily at his old stringed instrument, or they 
burst into a chorus of some weird island tune. Sitting 
also near the music in the centre of the room is a group 
of darker-skinned Colonials in red fez caps and with ear- 
rings, gazing into the machine amazed, captivated. 

The blind sailor in dark clothes and glasses is led 
to his regular seat near the Victrola to listen. He brings 
with him too his Spanish guitar ; although he cannot play. 
This is a recent present from a kind visiting lady who will 
stop in now and then to guide the unused fingers on the 
strings. He brings his own Braille book too which he 
is learning to read, slowly and painstakingly, in his own 
fashion. 

The Belgian boy, delicate and aristocratic, sits apart 
in his long chair by the window with pipe and books. 
He has had no opportunity to read since the war broke 
out, and he was a student at the University of Brussels. 
After his convalescence he will return again to the home 
city where it will be so good to study and dance again ! 

Crowded on long benches, close-packed over the rough 
board reading- table, soldiers of many nationalities sit over 
their Journaux, the pictured papers, or the Revues of 
France, political and literary. 

At our improm.ptu writing table, spread with pink blot- 
ting paper, there are written letters destined for many 
countries in languages as various. The Annamites, those 
humble little hospital helpers in spare white aprons, are 
the most faithful correspondents. Like solemn Japan- 
ese dolls in appearance, — with their coarse black 
hair brushed straight out in front, above faces white 
as chalk, and with immovable, round, black eyes fixed 



AU FOYER 147 

on the paper before them, they manufacture page upon 
page of characters, beautifully formed, as though to deco- 
rate a Chinese tea-box. I asked for a page as souvenir. 
The writer handed me this with his usual smile, mild and 
expressionless as a doll's, unable to speak our language 
and to tell me what it meant. 



4* 









February 19th is Chinese New Year's. It is 
customary for them to put stars on red 
paper; write poems on white paper, which 
they paste on the red paper and put on 
people's doors. 

How much more we might have learned of their own 
faraway country, from these amiable little people, had 
they been able to speak our language as to smile at us 
with the show of neatly blackened teeth ! 

An infirmiere in white sits on the long wooden bench 
in the corner, and there are with her a half-dozen French- 



148 'WATER COLORS" 

men with books and pads. There is the red-cheeked, 
bright-eyed little Chafford, intent and serious, heavy 
Camille quick-witted and jovial, Vinsenot, with the neatly 
upturned black moustache, decorous and slow to learn. 

The English lesson must always begin with a recitation 
of those unfamiliar sounds of our alphabet: — "c'est la 
pronunciation," they say shaking their heads, easily dis- 
couraged. Yet, bravely, if slowly, they recite the letters 
of the English alphabet and combinations, until they reach 
the inevitable stumbling block — th — "z-zee — s-see — " they 
struggle and laugh at the sheer hopelessness. 

Then they repeat in imison for the sounds : 

all 

fall 

ball— ball— 

"foot-ball? The American game, n'est-ce pas?" They 
wish to know all about it, how it is played in America. 
Camille will tell us how he played on General Petain's 
football team against the English. Odd how he never re- 
ceived other injury than sprain to his knee, all the time he 
was in the trenches, — 

"Well, allonsj" Already a bit puzzled, they continue 
in chorus another sound for a 

lawn 
fawn 
pawn, — 

there again the word suggests something. "Pawn — ^pawn, 
est-ce que c'est Pawnee Indians? They live in America?" 



AU FOYER 149 

He has read something about the Indians from Cooper, 
and wants to know more. Ah yes, how they would all 
love to hear of the Indians who inhabit America ! 

Then they have out their exercise books. The hearty 
laughing Camille has not done the lesson assigned, but in- 
stead has translated an article on football from the Eng- 
lish Sporting News. Vasenot with the correct mous- 
tache and Parisian bearing has written his note-book full 
of proverbs each copied precisely ten times : 

"A rolling stone gathers no moss." 
"Business is business." 

He hands me his book with some assurance and a look of 
derision for the laughing "sport." 

"Aha," murmurs the bright little Chafford with an un- 
derstanding already for the idiom. His mouse-bright 
eyes are ever intent on the lesson. For he must learn Eng- 
lish for his father's shop, which he will keep after the 
war. 

"So business is business, you say that often in America, 
what?" 

The lesson continues with Chafford's recitation in more 
literary vein of a verse from Wordsworth's Daffodils and 
a paragraph of translation from Uncle Tom's Cabin. 

Then they have out those popular text-books to be had 
on any news-stand: Parlons Avec Nos Allies. 

"How-do-you-do." 

"How-are-you ?" The other members of the Foyer 
gather about us amused, questioning, until the class reci- 
tation ends with an ever-growing chorus, Poilu, Tahitians, 
Senegalese ; surely in very fact it is : 



150 "WATER COLORS** 

"Parlons Avec Nos Alliis!" 
Sitting over small, green felt-covered packing boxes, 
improvised tables, are the more typical poilu groups. In- 
tent couples face each other over the checker-board, or 
larger groups toss dice in the popular jeu de Voie, or 
coppers for their game la manille- In a corner they 
are engaged with serious precision and technique over a 
toy billiard table two feet by three, or all may enter to- 
gether, with childlike abandon, into any new game sug- 
gested. In a long row, one laughing, pushing behind an- 
other, each awaits his turn to be blindfolded and twirled 
three times for the familiar game of "pinning the tail to 
the donkey," — only here it is to fasten a yellow bow to 
the neck of the black cat of hospital manufacture, which 
adorns the Foyer wall. 

Those soldiers with the ingenuous childlike faces un- 
der the round Httle hats with one feather do not join in 
play with the others. With their scant little coats and 
brimmed hats, these young Italians appear here for all the 
world like overgrown children wearing last-year's clothes 
to a party. They are shy and diffident too, looking on at 
a game or seated in a corner quietly apart with their 
books. ^ i 

Tall and black, the Senegalese, soldiers of Africa, hang 
somewhat aimlessly about these "salon" doors of ours, 
a little embarrassed to join in a game or even to approach 
the others too nearly. Their long shapeless faces are 
dark and smooth like velvet, with lustrous liquid eyes ex- 
pressive and faithful as a dog's. One feels almost that 
one might stroke them as one would some sleek animal. 
Long of limb and loose- jointed, their dark clothes hang 
baggily on the figure and they wear their red fez caps 



AU FOYER 151 

as though -unaccustomed to them. Certainly they wear 
their clothes with a notable difference to the French and 
Italian soldier, who has a certain chic in anything. When 
the Senegalese spruced up for the occasion, thev wore 
the present of socks just received from a kind visitmg 
lady, on the side of the head, — the foot hanging over as a 
sort of tassel. Perhaps they notice amused glances in 
their direction, smothered laughter. Yes, even with this 
latest addition to their uniform, the Senegalese must feel 
that they are eternally different! They can speak no 
word of another language, but watch them laugh and chat- 
ter among themselves; the whole face seems to contract 
and wrinkle until it is little but a line of red lips and 
flashing white teeth. 

Perhaps the thing about this colored race even less un- 
derstandable to us than their language, is their unique and 
primitive sense of humor, unless indeed it be their lack of 
it! Their favorite game, tiddledywinks, is an under- 
taking not to be considered Hghtly. Erect and serious, 
they sit for hours together about the green felt, 
intent on acquiring skill and technique at flipping 
the small colored discs with broad black fingers. With 
much hilarity, and a constant chatter, they entered upon 
the game of throwing cards into a scrap-^basket. I asked 
that they tell me when the game was finished as I had a 
prize to give. Presently all came to me each claiming to 
have won, and all highly amused over this joke of theirs. 
So I divided the prize, three mandarins, among the group, 
and the communistic solution threw them into fits of 
laughter. 

The soldier from Senegal took his orange with a de- 
lighted grin : then, holding his head on one side, as a con- 



152 "WATER COLORS" 

noisseur, he peeled it with careful fingers and swallowed 
all except the skin in two bites. This skin he ate after- 
wards, as a sort of dessert, smacking his lips over it with 
especial enjoyment. Then he solemnly handed me the 
slip of paper I had given him as plate. "But why not eat 
that too?" asked a poilu, and the Senegale would have 
followed the suggestion on the instant had I not with 
some difficulty dissuaded him. So keen is the Senegalese' 
enjoyment of oranges that we could not refuse them as 
many as they could eat, and the others might even for- 
get to eat their own as they stood by in interested wonder 
to watch the Senegalese consume theirs. 

There were many Senegalese in hospital, but all looked 
alike to me. Yet while these comrades of the stocking 
caps could speak no word of French and would sit and 
look at picture books upside down by the hour, there was 
one, black as the rest, to be sure, who it seemed had a 
classic taste in his reading. He had taken the plays of 
Moliere, of Corneille, and was devoted to Bourget. When 
he returned a volume of Chateaubriand, Outre Tomb, and 
I saw that the pages were actually cut, I remonstrated: 

"But I notice that you have a different taste in your 
books from your comrades here. Have you perhaps 
studied in France?" 

To my surprise he replied in good French. No, there 
was a French school at St. Louis, the capital of his coun- 
try, where he had "learned" philosophy. We asked him 
whether he would not teach his people some day. 

"No, I am not a student." 

"What is your metier?" I said. 

He hung his head, rather shamefaced. "You see I 
have no metier at home. My brother is Chief in our 



AU FOYER 153 

countiy, now; and my people always put my family on 
the throne, — nous montent toujours sur le trone — " So 
much for recognition of superior intelligence, even in 
Senegal. 

A funny black man from somewhere in the French 
Guiana, on the point of leaving hospital for Marseilles 
and his home port, came to the Foyer completely dressed 
for the trip, even to having the knapsack slung over his 
shoulder. As a parting present we gave him his choice 
of a box of cigarettes or a pair of black knit gloves, and he 
took the gloves ; evidently he had never worn such things 
before. He stood still, with fingers all outstretched, and 
it took a dozen of his comrades to put them on for him. 
They must be put on immediately, he insisted, and I even 
doubt if they came off again before the end of his journey. 
With the gloved hands spread before him, fan-fashion, 
and a tiny American flag in his cap, he paraded about the 
Foyer commenting upon himself, 

"Beaucoup joli!" 

The little soldier from Martinique has a different skin, 
blue-black, hard and smooth, suggestive rather of the 
surface of a blackboard than the traditional velvet. The 
whole contour of the face, the protruding reddish-brown 
eyes, the prominent nose, the full red lips, seem all a pro- 
trusion from the straight line of the head behind, and 
the broad flat forehead. His face is square, sweet and gen- 
tle, and becomes positively four-cornered when he smiles. 
Every day he is unobtrusively on hand to set out tables, 
chairs, and books for the Foyer. Then he regularly sits 
down at our table to write his letters home on neat pink 
note-paper, and is ready to put all away again when the 
bell rings for the soupe. 



154 "WATER COLORS" 

He is lonely here, the only soldier from his country, 
and he often talks with tis. I tell him of the other soldier 
from Martinique who was with us in the summer; he was 
from his own country, but different, after all. 

He shakes his head knowingly : 

''Cla depend — I have been brought up in a nice family, 
Mademoiselle." At home he is gardener and works 
among the flowers and loves to see their bright colors. 
Here on his lonely walks he has discovered the most color- 
ful gardens of the Riviera. When he goes to town he 
stops to look through the high Casino windows to watch 
the Americans dancing. 

"How they dance, — gentil, they understand how to be 
gay better than the French. It is so we dance in Mar- 
tinique, only gayer truly, — always whirling. We dress 
more gayly than you too, in white suits with flowers, and 
with broad straw hats when we dance out of doors." 

Every day before the Foyer is over he approaches me, 
cap in hand, and asks if I will perhaps play a game of 
dominoes. He plays with precision, will answer no one 
that speaks to him while he is playing, and does not like 
to have others join in the game. He wishes me to play 
as well as himself and is even distressed if I lose. He 
fits the dominoes together carefully, slowly and exquisitely 
with long black fingers 

The small lithe Madagascan with the swarthy gray skin, 
high cheek bones and aquiline nose, is distinguished-look- 
ing in spite of the plain black clothes which he wears here 
in the hospital, instead of the army doctor's distinguish- 
ing uniform to which he is entitled. Among the others 
he moves quickly and as it were shyly, only seeking some 
quiet corner where he may sit and read. The hands that 



AU FOYER 155 

hold the book are thin and marked in contour, the fingers 
long and shapely, continuing the finely suggested skeleton 
of the hand. And yet he is not altogether absorbed in 
his book; from under the rounded, prominent eyelids he 
glances quickly upward about the room, shyly observing 
the others at their play. He is alone here of his country- 
men and is grateful if we stop and speak with him a 
moment. 

"What is it you are reading to-day ?" 
Usually it is history, biography, or some journal of 
medical science. Again it is from the plays of Rostand. 
His favorite is the idealistic Princesse Lointaine. "It is 
the most beautiful book I have read," with an odd Httle 
shake of the head and tears in his eyes. 

He knows a httle English and is anxious to learn more. 
"As a child I had an English governess in Madagas- 
car." 

He is busy over his English exercises and soon has 
progressed beyond the elementary ones. Finally he writes 
a history of his own country for us. He tells of the 
theories of scientists regarding his island; of its anthro- 
pological story; the conquering Polynesians and the na- 
tive Vazimba. From the earliest times and peoples he 
traces tendencies in the civilization of Madagascar to- 
day. Again he is interested in translating from our own 
current newspapers and journals. He has followed re- 
ports of Doctor Carrel's work in America. He wishes 
to learn English especially, because it may help him in 
his own scientific work and researches. 

He is proud when able to read Kipling in the original. 
Kim absorbs him. But the dark eyes are only partly 
dreamy, the whole face alert and mobile. Most he wishes 



156 "WATER COLORS" 

to learn of actual history, of present conditions in other 
countries than his own. He asks about education in Eng- 
land and America. At home he has two daughters ; now 
if they were only sons they could of course be doctors 
after him. He would like to have them grow up inde- 
pendent and self-supporting. But this would necessitate 
an education very different from the one usually accorded 
women in Madagascar, and, after all, women should never 
depart from established precedent. 

**You must be impatient to be gone home to your coun- 
try after so many weeks and months in hospital?" 

No, he does not at all begrudge the long weeks and 
months spent so far from his home. He looks about 
the busy, crowded Foyer, his quick glance cheerful and 
inclusive. 

"This stay in hospital gives me opportunity to read, 
to study a little, to learn of different countries and peo- 
ple." 

The men from New Caledonia wear the distinguishing 
brown uniform of the Colonials; otherwise you might 
possibly mistake them for Frenchmen; but they are a 
heavier build, on the whole, their faces broader, less well 
formed. They are in no way intellectual; they have no 
taste for reading except it be a detective story. Yet they 
are sophisticated ; their taste is for the sensational news- 
paper, news and papers of the theatrical world, and popu- 
lar, tuneful music. They like to read for a thrill, an ex- 
citing, rapidly moving tale. The detective stories of Le 
Blanc, but especially the crude Fantomas Policier, the 
same which the Frenchmen pronounce "bete — ugly," are 
favorites of these readers from New Caledonia. 

The little La Borde with wide-open eyes, always ready 



AU FOYER 157 

for any experience of interest or excitement, has dis- 
covered on our table Le Courrier de Washington . . . 
"It is concerning Pearl !" The last time he saw it played 
it was at home in Noumea! This illustrated account of 
an American film-play is the only volume I have seen in 
the ward of the New Caledonians. There it remains for 
weeks, passed from one reader to the next, as they dis- 
cuss the heroine Pearl and her story. 

The elder of the two brothers La Borde, broad-faced 
and corpulent, and with clumsy, blundering movements, is 
awkward at everything, except music, for which he seems 
to have real talent and classic taste. He seriously sings 
and practices arias from the opera with a full and beau- 
tiful voice which struggles for expression. 

The little La Borde, light and nervous, quick and mis- 
chievous, makes fun of the person and efforts of his 
serious older brother. He too has an ear for music; a 
taste for light and popular airs which he plays by the hour 
on his wooden comb, and so amid the general applause 
strives to drown out the serious strains of his brother's 
heavy voice. 

One day at the Foyer the big and the little La Borde 
consented to perform together ; the occasion was a sort of 
temporary truce between the two. The promiscuous 
members of the Foyer were drawn from their books, 
their games, to listen in a common semicircle about the 
performers. The older brother sang popular songs, and his 
beautiful voice rolled out in Ferme tes Jolies Yeux, Made- 
Ion, Reve qui Passe. The little brother, squatting cross- 
legged at his feet, blew away on his pipe like some mis- 
chievous Pan. The musical Tahitians, unable to keep 
from their singing, joined with them on stringed instru- 



158 "WATER COLORS" 

ments, in sweet, weak voices. The conservative poilus 
gathered close about the performers, listening delightedly, 
applauding their own popular songs of France. 

Here, as in every social gathering, are cliques and dif- 
ferences. The Tahitians play together, the Frenchmen 
talk together, the men from Caledonia, from Senegal, keep 
discreetly to themselves. One Colonial will rarely play 
with a Colonial from a different country. What though 
they be of the same color they are of a different shade! 
The Frenchman, however, although he may make im- 
polite remarks afterward, will join with any or all in any 
sort of game. He has a greeting for the Colonial who 
sits down beside him; he helps the illiterate with their 
letters, joins in the conversation. The poilu, quite apart 
from prejudice, will do at the moment what seems the 
polite or gracious thing ; after all the poilu is chez lui. 

It is Chariot, sailor and deep-sea diver, who is our host 
incarnate, the most vital presence which our "Foyer- 
Salon" has known. In white cook's apron, sleeves rolled 
to the elbows, and his sailor's tam-o'-shanter perched 
on the top of his head, it is Chariot, rush- 
ing, swaggering somewhere, sleeves rolled up and shuff- 
ling slippers ; and yet it is Chariot, square, red- faced and 
smiling, is ever with us, omnipresent and cheerfully ob- 
vious. It is Chariot leading the game of bowling on the 
lawn as we drive in at the gate, and yet it is Chariot who 
is standing on the steps to receive us when we reach the 
door; his red face is lit by a flashing smile of welcome, 
snapping black eyes and whitest teeth. He seems to 
gather all our packages, phonograph and records, maga- 
zines, papers, fruit and all into his strong red arms "at 
one fell swoop," literally, and is off to help us arrange the 



AU FOYER 159 

room. When we arrive there we find the open fires go- 
ing; Chariot has started them. From the first 
moment Chariot has wound the phonograph, and it never 
stops till Chariot carries up the wines for supper. Regu- 
larly, every day. Chariot still further does the honors of 
the party by begging me to waltz with him, which honor I 
feel obliged to as regularly decline. Chariot is nothing 
daunted, however, and does not lack for partners. There 
is always at least one lively couple whirling about the 
hall when Chariot starts the victrola waltzes. It is Char- 
lot dancing with the cook, the Annamite, the shy little 
soldier of Italy, or the tall and stately brother of the 
Prince of Senegal. 

Now although Chariot is so constantly with us it 
seems that we are always shaking hands with Chariot 
either in greeting or farewell. We shake hands with him 
when he meets us on the steps, again when we reach our 
Foyer and find Chariot there before us in the attitude of 
host. Although Chariot is always with us he is always 
being called away, the natural sequel to his attendance, of 
course; and each time he goes he shakes hands before 
leaving, then with a rush and quick handshake he is again 
in our midst. To-day we have shaken hands with Char- 
lot for the longest and last time. He is ordered back 
to the sea where there is a ship with gold aboard sunk 
off Salonique. With many gestures he describes his div- 
ing suit and fixtures — then the rnoment, "rrrrrrrrrrr-pp \" 
then "zip !" rolling his ''rs" in great style, and he will be 
off looking for gold on the bottom! He gets 120 francs 
for his first hour under water, and, for time in addition, 
enough to make him a rich man shortly. He will send us 
a postal and tell us what his luck is. 



i6o "WATER COLORS" 

Martin is always with us, as is Chariot, but quietly- 
laying out books on the table or doing something unob- 
served in a corner. He is a stumpy, shabby, little poilu, 
with the keenest, alert, gray eyes. Martin rarely plays a 
game or reads a book, but he is busy putting something 
in order until it is time to put things away. On the whole 
Martin has a New England spirit ; he reminds one of the 
old lady who never slept very well, because she was in 
such a hurry to be up and have her bed made in the 
morning. He is anxious to be at home again with his 
mother after the years spent in Salonique. He is sure his 
mother needs him, she cannot take care of herself very 
well; "pensez! — par exemple" she happened to be out in 
the street when the command was given to leave their 
town, Verdun; and she actually allowed herself to be 
hurried away without once venturing into the house for 
the stocking under her mattress where were their 
savings, 3000 francs ! Martin shakes his head prudently, 
unbelieving. Of course one would know there was a has 
de laine history connected with the mother of quiet, 
quaint, shrewd little Martin. 

We might well compare our Foyer to any little cafe in 
the provinces, where the Frenchman will sit for an entire 
afternoon in converse with his neighbors, or alone even 
over his Journal, his glass and pipe. 

Gustot, with the long brown beard, older than most of 
the others, merely came down to smoke his pipe in a cor- 
ner and to watch the children play. When the pipe was 
finished, however, he would join with any other old poilu 
in a slow game of checkers which might last throughout 
an afternoon. It is no easy matter holding one's own in 
a jeu de dames when a poilu of many years "campaign- 



AU FOYER i6i 

ing" is one's adversary. Every move is most carefully 
thought over ; it is advised and advised against. There is 
always an audience to watch, when two face each other 
over the checker-board. 

Music seemed in some way a foreign element to this 
"salon" of the poilu, and yet if it were a popular song of 
France, something they already knew and liked that our 
Victrola played, they would look up much pleased, and 
sing or whistle in accompaniment. The song which 
awakened the greatest response was Charge de VArmee 
Francaise, the song these soldiers used to sing when they 
went forward to attack. At the first bugle note with which 
the song opens they jumped from their chairs; they 
whistled, they sang, they beat time to the music. And the 
sedate old Gustot with the beard, away with his pipe in a 
corner, beat on the arms of his chair until I thought it 
would break, and sang a lusty accompaniment, his eyes 
glistening, with what I could not tell, bt^t I thought, as I 
looked at him, that I gained first-hand information, for a 
moment, of his qualities as a soldier. 

There came a sort of hush over the Foyer; a lady was 
there with a basket of brown paper parcels, a cadeau for 
each of the men. They held their breaths ; for everyone 
a pair of hand-knitted woolen socks, a briquet for their 
cigarettes! The faces looked embarrassed and touched, 
then one of them cried : this was the first "cadeau" he had 
received for years. His mother and sister used to knit 
him socks for each cold winter at the jour de Van, but 
now, — ^his home was destroyed three years ago. 

The passage around the Foyer of a box of cigarettes 
from America was a function all by itself. Whether in- 
terested in reading or checkers each poilu would take 



i62 "WATER COLORS" 

time for his individual expression of thanks ; they might 
be brief words : ''Merci, Madame/' but there is a pecuHar 
reverence and radiance when the poilu speaks gratitude 
from the bottom of his heart. He takes the gold- tipped 
cigarette attentively, and, with the air of a connoisseur 
holds it in particularly gingerly f asion between thumb and 
forefinger, just as though it were the prettiest, most fra- 
gile thing imaginable. The passage of the box around the 
Foyer is followed by such a universal expression of con- 
tentment, and marked by so many glowing cigarette ends 
and twisting columns of smoke, that it might almost seem 
that there were suddenly lit so many little fires on as many 
cozy hearths to help warm this cold gray hall. 



THE POILU'S BOOKS 

The long tables all about the hall are bright with the 
colored covers of popular papers. There is the blatantly 
gay Baionette, Illustration with its charming colored 
plates, the popular Science et la Vie, the Miroir, and the 
large yellow Cartes Larousse; Le Monde et le Theatre, 
pictures of theatrically dressed women on the conspicuous 
covers. Over the tables are grouped the Colonials in 
motley colors and odd bits of uniform, wonderingly turn- 
ing the pictured pages, or the more thoughtful French- 
men, in pale blue, with round shoulders, bending to the 
more literary Revues. 

They read the Revue des Deux Mondes, conservative, 
Royalist and Catholic; the Revue and the Revue de 
Paris, wider in range and vision ; Le Mercure where new 
writers, new thought, poetry and prose find a place. All 
laugh for a time together over Baionette's humeur gras- 
sier e; it does not amuse for long and they turn readily to 
the others, the better thing. For there are Illustration, 
Lectures Pour Tous, La Science et la Vie, Le Miroir, re- 
flecting popular science, invention, thought, picturesque 
scenes and events of the day. Those pretty Alsatian pic- 
tures, the fetes and life in Alsace after the armistice, catch 
their eye especially. They have been particularly interest- 
ed in articles and pictures which show any section of the 
country where they or their comrades have been on cam- 
paign, or which have to do with their own branch of the 
service or with that of a friend. They read eagerly about 
their present-day heroes, Foch and Clemenceau ; the lat- 

163 



i64 "WATER COLORS" 

ter they have thought a good war tiger — but now ? This 
and many other questions they have asked of themselves 
and of each other as they read. 

Here and there a soldier has pulled his stool to the win- 
dow or away in a corner under a dim electric Hght in the 
ceiling and is reading in his brown-covered volume a 
roman d'amour probably, quite oblivious of everything 
else. 

Back of the table in the corner, heaped high with brown 
covered volumes, stands an infirmiere in white ; and there 
is a continual procession to Madame's table, poilus, cooks 
and scrubwomen, each with a brown volume to return and 
wishing to take another. Again her table is the inti- 
mate social centre of our Foyer; to her the men bring 
their books for discussion, their own stories and confi- 
dences. These poilus are frank and yet with a great re- 
ticence; and so it was that suddenly, after rather banal 
talk, we might catch a glimpse of the real man, — work, 
books, wife, education of children, the meaning of life, 
the feeling for religion. It was an endless variety, each 
man indeed has his ''jardin secret." We found them ever 
eager, inquiring men, sceptical, yes, but not disheartened ; 
talking most intelligently of the larger problems of life. 

Or they sit silently for an afternoon, deciding on their 
choice of books, browsing here and there in old favorites, 
idly turning the pages. Indeed we may compare this hih- 
liotheque of the poilu to any Httle cafe in the provinces 
where the Frenchman sits sipping his coffee, the small 
glass of sirop, or white wine and water, but lingers as 
long as he likes for the quiet talk over his glass, the game 
of checkers, or the reading of the day's Journal And 



THE POILU'S BOOKS 165 

for the provincial cafe's Dame de comptoir here we have 
a Madame I'Infirmiere exchanging books instead of cop- 
pers. 

Madame's function of giving books is of equal im- 
portance with theirs of asking. We did not give them a 
librafy ready-made; indeed ''What will the poilu read?" 
we wondered. "After all they are not tres instruits; give 
them anything sensational," we were advised. And yet 
we did not buy for them those livres de scandale which 
may be had on any newsstand for six sous. Those books 
which are so frankly, so cleverly or stupidly risque, 
to meet the vulgar taste. Naturally the poilu has 
often purchased them for his own amusement. Trash 
costs less, for one thing. But is it not also most natural 
that the conservative Frenchman, given the opportunity, 
should turn to what is indeed his own, his inherited liter- 
ary tradition ? Through men who had thought and writ- 
ten the thought of Frenchmen throughout the years, in 
verse and prose, in varying moods and conditions, we 
merely tried to help the reader to find himself. 

Our term "standard books" cannot be applied to those 
we chose for their library: for, to the Frenchman his 
literature is a living thing, individual as the writer, — or 
the reader. Yet in spite of particular differences and the 
years' outer changes, certain fundamental French charac- 
teristics remain the same. The ame chevaleresque comes 
from Roland, through du Guescelin and Bayard, to Foch, 
Petain, Joffre, and the smallest poilu of them all. The 
chivalry lies hidden sometimes, but it is there. Daily and 
hourly it has found its natural expression in the simplest 
act of these peasant soldiers : 



i66 "WATER COLORS" 

"Ya meime eu des foes, dans les cotes, 

"Que j'ons porte les sacs des aut'es 

"Afin d'leu porter tin peu s'cours 

"Malgre qu'moi-meim' jetions ben las! ..." 

These poilus have high ideals, and they are for la 
Patrie, — not for la Patrie as a whole, perhaps, but more 
especially for that section or departement which each man 
calls his own, his pays, moreover his own little square of 
earth, if he is fortunate enough to own one. This they 
would defend with a smile to their last breath, and, each 
defending his own, together they have defended la Patrie. 

"Et qu'les gas qui cultiv' la terre 
Cest leur devoir ed la defendre." 

They are interested naturally in stories of their own 
pays, their departement. Descriptions of country or land- 
scape are particularly enjoyed. Many a man has spoken 
especially of a paragraph, or phrase, describing some sec- 
tion of country familiar to him. For the land-man's 
every fibre of being is of the soil, and even is he by cir- 
cumstance a townsman, his heart is usually in the country. 
The sea- faring men have wished to read of the sea. The 
Bretons are not captivated only by the genius of Loti. 
Even that little book Guenn, by the American, Blanche 
Willis Howard, translated into the French, was read with 
pleasure by our Breton sailor and passed on to his com- 
rades in the hospital. Ramuntcho of Antole France 
pleased the men of the Basque Pyrenee country, so Balzac 
those of Touraine. Dumas and Hugo might appeal espe- 
cially as they write of Paris, as Theuriet of Savoy, and 



THE POILU'S BOOKS 167 

Lac d'Annency, Lamartine of Lac Bourget and Aix in his 
Meditations, and Daudet of the Midi, from his "Moulin" 
not far from Aries. 

The books most read cover a wide field : Racine, Cor- 
neille, Balzac, Bordeaux, Bourget, Daudet, Dumas, De 
Vigny, Anatole France, Hermant, Victor Hugo, Lamar- 
tine, Le Blanc, Moreaux, Rostand, Theuriet. Here are 
comedies humaines, roman, roman psychologique, contes, 
aventureSj humeur, philosophie. 

The Frenchman demands above all that his book should 
be sincere. He has no patience with pretense or insin- 
cerity. Let a man write what he knows, not pretend to 
write what he does not know. The books must be real, 
alive, vital, and contain thought. For the Frenchman 
reads thoroughly what he reads, never with the surface 
of the mind. For him there is no reading of headlines. 
He reads all ; enjoys the descriptions as the dialogue, and 
finally judges the work in its entirety. 

He is logical and thinks in order and in sequence; the 
Romans taught him that. By nature he has an analytical 
mind, investigating, not to add fact to fact, after the man- 
ner of the Germans, but from his intense interest to find 
out about some subject which appeals to him. The French 
like to investigate life in every way; hence their problem 
plays, therefore their interest in philosophy and science. 
French humor contains thought; it is subtle, excelling in 
the double entendre- Certainly except when this humor 
is frankly grossier, it is a "battledore and shuttlecock" of 
words and phrases. And their pleasure when a word 
or a phrase has pleased them is not only a matter of wits, 
it constitutes a part of the love of all form and beauty of 
language. The Frenchman is not a sentimentalist, but 



i68 "WATER COLORS" 

has a deep sense of sentiment, which is hidden, often, 
under a mocking exterior. 

He is, as a rule, a philosopher, a gay philosopher, but 
one who yet sees things en noir. From that comes his 
morbidity. Knowing this tendency, sometimes conscious- 
ly, more often unconsciously, he takes refuge in his rail- 
leries. Cynical he is as he sees too keenly not to be. He 
has a clear vision and sees deeply and with insight. From 
his ancestors he has been a warrior born, who saw the 
rude side of life before the gay. They learned the 
art of reflecting, observing, laughing, yes, and mocking 
too — as Figaro has it in Beaumarchais' Le Barbier de 
Seville: "... parcourant philosophiquement les deux 
Castilles, La Manche, . . . partout superieur aux evene- 
ments, loue par ceux-ci, blame, par ceux-la; aidant au 
bon temps, supportant le mauvais, me moquant des forts ; 
bravant les mechants ; riant de ma misere. . . . Je me presse 
de rire de tout, de peur d'etre oblige d'en pleurer" — there 
is the Frenchman's esprit! His philosophy makes him 
really the most patient of men in peace, and in war willing 
to fight to the finish; but, the war over, ready to make 
peace if the enemy is sincere. 

The authors of the so-called period of the Restauration 
were the ones the poilus liked best. These were those 
writers, Hugo, Dumas, De Vigny, who brought life back 
to French Uterature, dared to be original, skeptical, inquir- 
ing into every subject, whether of God or man, — reaUsts, 
but not to the extent of Zola, and idealists as well. They, 
Hugo, Dumas and the others, looked beyond France and 
learned to know Shakespeare, Scott and Byron, as did our 
men. Writer and reader alike were investigators, con- 



THE POILU'S BOOKS 169 

sciously or unconsciously ever thinking, slowly meditat- 
ing. 

About the library table we had many more talks about 
life and the wider questions than we had of books as 
books ; but these talks arose naturally out of some book 
the soldiers were reading. So we were discussing La- 
martine and Hugo and certain ideas when the poilu- 
blacksmith said, "We do not understand, many of us, but 
we are all thinking." Meditation, evidently, goes with a 
Frenchman's reading as with his fishing, when, by the 
Seine, in Brittany, and Normandy, in the Basque country, 
by the canals of the Loire or in Tourainc, north, south, 
east and west, wherever a stream is available, the French- 
man on a vacation will fish — and meditate. And men 
who have the patience to fish all day whether they catch 
or not, who work slowly, who meditate, can endure long 
strains and go far, — they even love to read long books! 
Then what, one wonders, will the Frenchman, the poilu 
of the future be? Will machines and inventions kill all 
the handwork, the love of the beauty of each thing made? 
Will to-day's commercial mechanism destroy the willing- 
ness, yes the desire to work more slowly, that 
each bit of work be more perfect? What will the 
rush, the making everything by machine, no more 
work for its own sake, but work for the money's 
sake, what will this do to these men? Will the cinema 
take the place of reading, of days spent in the country, 
picnics in the woods, — and destroy the love of fishing 
also? And what are the fishermen thinking these days? 

War has been an awakener of minds. "We do not under- 
stand, many of us, but we are all thinking." And as war 
has awakened many sleeping minds, so it has strengthened 



I70 "WATER COLORS" 

atavistic instincts good and bad. And shall we wonder 
that this be most evidently so with a conservative, thought- 
ful people? How many times before this has France 
known the cataclysm of war ! Revolutions have upset her 
time and time again. The low have become high, the 
high low. Yet today the fisherman has gone back to his 
accustomed place on the banks of his stream, and the 
returned soldier, convalescent in hospital, sits peacefully 
reading his Corneille, his MoUere or Hugo. He remem- 
bers the book from school-days, it may be, and too, may 
he not have had an ancestor who knew and loved 
literature in the days before the great revolution? Idle 
speculation while this alone is sure; there exists in the 
very mind and soul of France an instinct for the best, 
which rises, like good seed, forever fresh and green. 

The mere name of a classic made these poilu readers 
curious and eager; they might wish for an old volume, 
something they had heard of a long time ago, or else it was 
for what they had already read, that their tired minds 
would re-discover; I have rarely seen a Frenchman who 
did not have his favorite. They have wished for just 
this volume or that one of Moliere, Corneille or Racine, 
and it is because of this scene or that one they want it, or 
because they "remember a pretty verse here or there." 
And where have they found opportunity to know and love 
their books so well ; these cultivateurs, street-car conduc- 
tors, these little shopkeepers and townspeople, for the past 
four years the poilus of France? 

"Oh, that was a long time ago," they might tell you in- 
definitely ; and yet it is not so long either, since they went 
to school in black socks and apron and learned, as natural- 
ly as they spoke their first words at the mother's knee, 



THE POILU'S BOOKS 171 

to recite from La Fontaine's fables "La cigale ayant 
chants tout I'ete," Renard and Corheau, and wrote their 
childish dictee. Even then they were following in thought, 
criticizing what they had read. Then up to their four- 
teenth year, they learned in verse and prose of the men 
who have made France famous, her glories, her folly and 
her charm; the speaking, living France, the same for 
whom they have been fighting. Perhaps they like to re- 
member those earher years now, at any rate they would 
re-acquaint themselves with heroes, visions, and adventure 
of which they have known too little in these last years, 
crowded with actuality. Yet ask them have they found 
a book amusing, interesting ? They are easily indifferent, 
never "thrilled." For the book they really like they have 
an answering smile of pure satisfaction and words of 
highest praise : "Yes, it is joli, hien ecrit/' 

Our volumes of Hugo were perhaps the most popular, 
and as hand and eye discovered them happily, at once, 
the men would carry them away reading and quoting. 
Those who had not read before would take a volume a 
day, following the irresistible adventure of the tale, while 
those who knew their story well kept their favorite 
volume a livre de chevet, literally, for days on the bols- 
ter of their beds. Surely the reasons for the popularity 
of Hugo are not far to seek: readers of many nations 
have, in common with the poilu, followed the romance of 
Cosette and Marius, of Fantine, and have greatly loved 
their Jean Valjean. For it is Jean Valjean who capti- 
vates by his courage as by his patience, by his inexhaus- 
tible goodness, even. Victor Hugo wrote of the live 
France which he knew, knew the people, felt as they did. 
And they in turn love even his panache, his extrava- 



172 "WATER COLORS" 

gance is forgiven. In fact, if sincerity goes with the 
panache it is not only forgiven but admired. They ap- 
preciate his genius, his thought and spirit, as they admire 
his absolute independence. We are reminded of that say- 
ing of Hugo, ''Something exists between me and the peo- 
ple that makes us understand each other." Indeed shall 
we not believe that there may exist the closest bond be- 
tween the human, the greatly loving poet and patriot 
and these soldiers, shabby, war-weary, who turned 
to his pages for forgetfulness and solace? To whom, 
indeed, would the master story-teller, friend of the 
wretched, the lowly, the lover of youth and of all its young 
romance, rather have spoken, than to these soldier-chil- 
dren, the poilus of France ? 

But it was not those novels we all know best, Les 
Miserables, Travailleurs de la Mer, Quatre-Vingt-Treize, 
which were popular. Naumendorff, with the thinned red 
hair and the rheumatism, and his thirty-one years, "le 
vieux" the comrades called him, was absorbed in Hugo's 
more philosophical Avant and Pendant VExil, where the 
writer speaks so plainly his convictions, ideals on all the 
varied aspects of humanity, of his life, political and artis- 
tic. It was difficult to make our poilu-patient get up and , 
hobble across the room while we made his cushiony bed ; 
he did not wish to put down his book. 

"Long ago I read Hugo's romans, but in this book I 
come to know Hugo himself; yes, it is fort inter essant.'* 

The novels of Dumas, but especially Les Trois Mous- 
quetaires, Vingt Ans Apres and Le Vicomte de Brage- 
lonne came close in popularity to Hugo. And here again is 
France, the France of Louis XIII and of Louis le Grand. 
It was a long time ago they read Les Trois Mousquetaires 



THE POILU'S BOOKS 173 

and came to know their d'Artagnan, the joy of every 
French boy's heart, and now they would know more of his 
story. Vingt Ans Apres is a case of three thick volumes, 
you know, and Le Vicomte de Bragelonne is in six. So I 
warned them. But as the Frenchman likes to fish all day 
in the same stream whether he catch or not, so he will read 
all day of the same hero. He becomes a familiar, and is 
enjoyed the more. Methodically they came back for one 
volume after another, readers who might tell us with Ste- 
venson that they "... have approached the Vicomte, 
not across country, but by the legitimate, five-volumed 
avenue of the Mousequetaires and Vingt Ans Apres, 
..." surely a proof that they know and love it well. 
Joyfully, with Stevenson, they "... would turn again 
to that crowded and sunny field of life in which it was so 
easy to forget ..." Many there are to question the lit- 
erary merit of Dumas, but the poilus of France, Hke our 
own well-loved writer and critic, have read and re-read 
their story ; "and this is the particular crown and triumph 
of the artist — not to be true merely, but to be lovable ; not 
simply to convince, but to enchant." 

Not only is one of these volumes of Dumas a livre de 
chevet, a book to be treasured at the very pillow of one's 
bed, it is the common possession of all. Not usually in- 
clined to talk of, or to discuss their bodks, yet they would 
speak of Porthos and Athos, of Aramis and d'Artagnan, 
naturally, familiarly almost, as if they were not characters 
in a book, but vivid living personalities, whom all knew in 
common. Different characters at different times claimed 
the reader's interest or sympathies : bashful, southern Por- 
thos, mysterious Athos, Aramis so clever and intriguing. 
But it is ever d'Artagnan, daring, dashing, affectionate, 



174 "WATER COLORS" 

gay, the hero of cloak and sword, immortal example of 
the hero of France, the favorite of the world, who is 
also the favorite of the poilu, the "comrade" whom they 
especially love. Ever they would follow his story, his en- 
chanting and enchanted life; they read in their beds, on 
the library bench, or stretched on sunny garden banks 
above the sea, in sight even of that storied "Isle St. Mar- 
guerite" where, under the order of the Kmg, d'Artagnan 
conducts his mysterious prisoner, the man in the iron 
mask. . . . 

In our "Foyer-Bihliotheque" Jules Verne's books of 
travel and adventure came and went incessantly in their 
tattered covers, and we must have a supply of many 
copies ; even so they did not lie on our table, but were ex- 
changed rapidly from hand to hand. Did we see a soldier 
waiting with an especially worn volume and an 
eager look of anticipation, we knew that he was 
there to make a certain trade and to learn more 
of the history of "Les Enfants," Mary Grant 
and her brother, on search for their father around the 
world. Next to Les Enfants du Capitaine Grant, Vingt 
Milles Lieues Sous Les Mers was popular. "How this 
leads the imagination away," one of the soldiers said to 
me. Away is it, or back, from the actual world of tire and 
pain, and satiety of adventure to the time when, thrilled 
to have won his prize at school,^ he carried the book home 
with him in his shiny knapsack. Was it not even then 
that he may have made his first voyage around the world 
with the children of the Captain, that he followed his 
boy's imagination up in a balloon, down to the depths of 

1 The books of Jules Verne are customarily given as prizes 
for work done at the Lycee. 



THE POILU^S BOOKS 175 

the sea? So, after his own life of activity this conserva- 
tive poilu of France would live again the long, happy 
evenings of boyhood, the joy of all first adventure. 

With the exception of Verne's stories, which owe their 
popularity to quite other reasons, a book must have some 
sort of love-story connected with it to be really popular. 
" L' amour" , of course, every Frenchman must have. He 
whose Patrie is a woman, whose Saints, par excellence, 
Jeanne d'Arc and St. Genevieve, knows the love of ideal- 
ism. As he is a lover, the Frenchman is a psychologist, 
with the psychologist's curiosity, and all love problems 
interest him, the more intime the better. With him it 
must ever be cherchez la femme, be it for good or evil. 
Again, few know as the Frenchman the serenity of family 
happiness : life in the country, Sundays in the Bois with 
wife and children. 

Though it treat of love, poetry, as such, apart from cer- 
tain plays, was little read. Even de Musset was taken 
but once, by a comedian from Paris. Rostand's La 
Princesse Lointaine, with its idealistic theme, was read by 
individual Frenchmen, and by educated colonials, Mada- 
gascan and Belgian alike, but it was not universally ap- 
preciated. Chantecler is too forced, fantastique of 
course. And yet Rostand is loved by them all and "there 
is no one Uke Rostand" any poilu would tell us. For it is 
Rostand who, in his turn, brings life to French literature, 
who shows the real France, ''Cyrano," France incarnate, 
youth, dme guerriere, chevaleresque. In this character 
gayety, bravery, panache, but also endurance, idealism and 
love, disinterested, misunderstood, triumph finally. And 
can we wonder at the popularity of Cyrano de Bergerac, 
with an historical appeal part of the very tradition of 



176 "WATER COLORS" 

France, and an appeal to sentiment, to sentimentality, the 
strongest with all simple people? The interpretations of 
Sarah Bernhardt and the cinema, too, are undeniably 
agents which today might come near to tradition in their 
influence on the thought of the provinces. 

Bordeaux's novels of sentiment and domestic problem, 
La Peur de Vivre, La Robe de Laine, Les Yeux Qui 
s'Ouvrent, have a strong appeal to sentiment and senti- 
mentality. And the somewhat "slow** style is made up 
for by its reflective quality. To a less extent the 
stories moities sentimentales of Alphonse Karr, Sous 
les Tilleuls, and others, are popular. The sensational 
stories of George Sand, Valentine and Indiana are 
favorites, as are Octave Feuillet's sentimental L'Histoire 
d'un Jeune Homme Pauvre, and others. Jean d' Agreve, 
that novel of passionate love-letters, was of course wel- 
comed to every lonely poilu's heart. 

The sensational but well-written novels of Montepin, 
La Porteuse du Pain, and L' Argent, were eagerly 
and rapidly read. But sensation alone is never of 
paramount interest. Detective stories, even Le Blanc's 
Sherlock Holmes series, were less popular than we might 
suppose. The attractive ''Gentleman Cambrioleur" has 
his undeniable charm, of course, while the crude Fan- 
tomas Policier in spite of its black flags, its spies, and 
mysterious letters, they quite frankly did not like; it is 
''bete, ugly." 

What might be called the "love idyll of the country," 
the simple, wholesome love story, the setting familiar 
countryside or coast, was most dearly loved by our read- 
ers. Such books are Chanteraine, Mon Oncle Flo, and all 
the short stories of Andre Theuriet. There are Loti's 



THE POILU'S BOOKS i77 

Le Matelot and Pecheur d'Islande, charming tales of 
their own fishing villages. There are the novels by Bazin, 
interpreter of the peasants, a reaUst, yet a devoted church- 
man and without the brutality of Zola. OherU with its 
theme of patriotism and the Alsatian question had the 
added popular appeal of the moment. And its sequel Les 
Nouveaux OherU continuing the history of those same 
Alsatian famihes through the war of 1914-18, as it ap- 
peared in the Revue des Deux Mondes, was eagerly read, 
passed from hand to hand. What wonder that La Terre 
qui meurt, Donatienne, Le Ble qui Leve, and all those 
stories dealing with the question of retour a la terre, 
were eagerly read by these peasant soldiers. 

The sentiment for retour a la terre is popular not 
only as a literary theme in a novel A stumpy little poilu 
with a freckled, unimaginative face asked one day for a 
book to help him raise cabbages and rabbits when he 
should return to his father's farm in the invaded district. 
And so we added to our library the whole suite of Jardin 
Potager which had at once a rapid circulation, some 
reading the books on gardening and poultry raising, the 
basse-cours, some asking particularly for books on the 
raising of cabbages or canard, and pore, most popular of 
all! 

When we carried a basket of new books to the wards 
we were greeted with enthusiasm quite equal to the 
pleasurable reception of cigarettes. The popular roman 
d'amour, short stories of Bazin, Sand, Octave 
Feuillet, in the light paper-covered volumes and illus- 
trated editions, were most easily held by the tired men in 
bed. 



178 "WATER COLORS" 

"Les jours nous sont tres longs,'* they told us, and "it 
is our books help us passer de hons moments." 

Unless he has had some experience in a foreign country I 
have not found the French soldier either curious or eager 
to read of a country other than his own. The soldiers re- 
turned from Eastern campaigns had their curiosity 
aroused to an unusual extent for the conservative French- 
man, by the weird, strange life of the East. It is the veiled 
mysterious women of Eastern cities who made them won- 
der especially, and they took out Loti's Desenchantees and 
Azyade with eagerness. They were interested, yes, but 
their verdict was not wholly favorable. Language, style, 
are not enough for the poilu's astute mind. With a shrug, 
they are quite sure Loti sees things "couleur de rose" 

Have they had no experience in a foreign country it 
may be the mere name of a classic will attract. A curious 
trio, Shakespeare, Poe and Cooper, were asked for. They 
"would read anything Shakespeare had written," but they 
would like best Romeo and Juliet, of course. Certainly 
it is no wonder that this love story, par excellence, should 
appeal to the Frenchman; the story of Romeo 
and Juliet will form part of his inheritance, a 
tradition almost, through the rendering of it by 
Gounod, loved composer of France. They had heard of 
Poe, but it was evident they enjoyed the Contes quite on 
their own merit, especially Le Scarahee d'Or. Of 
Cooper's works they had heard in connection with the 
American Indian. Cooper's La Prairie was his only book 
I could secure for them. It was taken, but only once; 
the poilu who read it returned it with a queer shake of the 
head : "Ca ne me plait pas," and word would seem to have 



THE POILU'S BOOKS 179 

been passed on to his comrades, for after that no one 
asked for Cooper. 

Les Derniers Jours de Pompei I recommended once; 
after this, the volume was in constant circulation ; this and 
Crocket's fantasy of Scotch life La Capote de Lilas, the 
history of The Lilac Sunbonnet, were the two books 
on our library catalogue as popular with the French as 
their own. 

When our French soldier-reader had discovered a 
foreign book which he liked, he seemed as much pleased 
with himself as with what he read. Word was passed 
from one to the other with a knowing, superior nod : "It is 
asse2 bien" 

History, accounts of travel and adventure in a foreign 
country, were not much read. Even Charcot's account 
of his antarctic expedition was seldom taken. Books on 
Africa, A Travers I'Afrique and others, dealing, as they 
do with a field more intimately connected with French 
history, were more often read. Written by less skilful 
narrators, accounts of actual fact, this sort of books had 
however, none of the appeal of those stories of Jules 
Verne which are able so well to "lead the imagination 
away." But those highly interesting scientific pamphlets of 
I'Abbe Moreaux, d'Ou Venons Nous, Ou Allons Nous, 
Un Jour dans la Lune, those which encourage thought and 
speculation on our origins, on physical phenomena, have 
an irresistible appeal to the Frenchman's curiosity and 
speculative habit. 

The exception to the general run of histoires, 
seldom read, were any books dealing with the life 
of Napoleon. The fishermen of this part of the coast look 
far over the sea toward Corsica, place of Napoleon's 



i8o "WATER COLORS" 

birth, for the light to break through the clouds over 
the island, an omen of calm seas and a cloudless sky- 
after the storm. And through their books the soldiers in 
the Riviera hospital would follow the story of their hero. 
Have, after all, Napoleon's youthful dreams for the glory 
and good of France conquered his often mistaken ambi- 
tions of later life? 

Among current or scientific literature, books on 
America had the appeal of an irresistibly popular and 
timely subject. Highly illustrated, somewhat sensational 
books and booklets on American industry, skyscrapers, 
travels, and industrialism, were glanced through with in- 
terest. But the leisurely philosophical Lettres d'un vieil 
Americain a un Franc ais were more generally read. The 
poilus asked especially for a book on American women, 
but the somewhat historical account of distinguished 
American women in Theodore Bentson's Femmes 
d'Amerique was not the sort they were looking 
for. They were satisfied by a wholly different type of 
book which answered their curiosity from a more philoso- 
phical and less historical, also from a popular and con- 
temporary angle; in Varigny's Femmes d'Amerique they 
might get the point of view of one of their own con- 
temporary countrymen. 

Anything written by, or concerning the late Theodore 
Roosevelt has almost the appeal of the classic for the 
Frenchman. The name of Roosevelt is universally 
known ; Doridon, Chasseur Alpin, blanchisseur, by metier, 
was the first of our poilus to ask for some book on Roose- 
velt. La Vie Intense was the only book we could buy at the 
time — following Doridon's recommendation this was con- 
tinually taken out. After Colonel Roosevelt's death I was 



THE POILU'S BOOKS i8i 

besieged with demands for some account of the Ufe and 
work of Roosevelt. 

President Wilson was of course the sensation of the 
moment, but of him the men told me they read enough 
through the newspapers. 

With the exception of books on aviation, La Vie en 
Grand Air, — a subject which has in itself a romantic and 
imaginative appeal — "war books" were little read. 

Loti's rUorreur Allemande and one or two others on 
the same theme never had their pages cut. "We are tired 
of hearing what our own people tell about the Germans; 
if you could get some book wholly unprejudiced, just a 
history of the war on both sides." At a time when we in 
America wished for little but war literature VOdysse 
d'un Transport Torpille, Le Feu, were seldom taken from 
our shelves. A Capitaine to whom Le Feu was lent did not 
approve it at all : "// est grossierement ecrit et pas a re- 
commander," and of course this was no book for the 
poilu, since it must seem to him a mere chapter of horror, 
unenlightened by his own simple sentiment and idealism. 
One of the men has perhaps well expressed the attitude 
of them all when he said that no man who had not been 
in the real war at the front could write of it. No imagin- 
ation could picture the reality; while those who had ac- 
tually been there could not find words to describe what 
they knew. So, quite aside from the fact that the soldier 
who had lived war did not wish to read about it, he 
thought war books worthless. , 

Just one war poem they proclaimed true. Seated, one 
afternoon, a group of comrades together about the fire, 
one poilu read aloud to the others, from a poem he had 
found and liked : La Passion de Notre Frere le Poilu : 



i82 "WATER COLORS" 

C'etait un pauvr' bougre d'Poilu, 

Qui s'en allait sous la mitraille . . . 

Vantie ben qu'i n'aurait voulu 

Etre en auf part qu'en la bataille; 

Mais, du moment qu' f allait qu' i n*y aille, 

Ben, i n'y allait, tout simplement, 

Sachant ben que, contr' sa misere, 

Ya point a fair' de raisoun'ment, 

Et qu' les gas qui cultiv' la terre, 

Cest leur devoir ed' la def endre, — 

And so on, in the patois of Anjou, it is a crude but tender 
poem, yet withal a bit of their own lives, their thought, to 
which these poilus listened. There came a wonderful 
lightening of those grave faces, reposeful in the 
firelight, and smiles of simplest appreciation, approval: 
"Cest hien," — "si c'est comme ca," "c'est vrai/' came in 
low tones from one man after another. 

In spite of the fact that the mere name of Daudet is 
one to conjure with, and the popularity of L^ Petit Chose, 
Tartarin, and all those stories, Daudet's Contes de Lundi 
was a book rarely taken, nor was Deroulede's History of 
the War of 1870, Feuilles de Route. But Deroulede's 
dramatic Chants du Soldat have a certain appeal for the 
reader of to-day as they had for the soldier of 1870. 

Le Soldat Chapuzot, La Cantine Chapuzot, and all that 
suite which have pictured the life of the poilu of 1914-18 
in humorous vein, were read with keen enjoyment. But 
Chapuzot was not popular for its connection with the 
war, but rather because it is "rigolo," funny. They might 
laugh at the droll Chapuzot, at themselves even, in this 
"simple soldat" : 



THE POILU'S BOOKS 183 

''Tel que vous m'voyez, j'ai eu de I'amhition, moi dans 
les commencements: fai voulu etre dans la musique, j'ai 
pas pu! Fai essay e d'etre cap oral, j'ai pas reussi! 
Apres ga, j'ai fait du tambour, et le tambour-major m'a 
fichu a la porte de I'ecole parce que je ne faisais pas son 
affaire et que j'lui crevais toutes ses pieaux! 

"Bref, y a que dans la cuisine que j'ai pu me rendre 
utile. Eh bien! Vous m'croirez si vous voulez, mais on 
m'a rendu un fier service en me flanquant a la porte de 
Partout, et en m'forgant a rester simple 'troubade' de 
premiere classe comme je suis. 

''Ah! non! pour surf J' changer ais pas ma position 
pour les deux galons rouges de 'cabot' ou les galons d'or 
de 'sous-off'!" 

.... And what else of the war and its life had been 
turned to song and laughter was not a literary preference, 
but a fundamental part of that joyous outlook on life 
characteristic of the poilu, as is that proverb of his Latin 
race Carpe Diem! 

"Maintenant que tout le monde met sac au dos, tout le 
monde crie: 'Vive la Classe!' Ce qu'on pourrait traduire 
par la phrase: 'Ah! quel plaisir de n'etre bientot plus 
soldat!'" 

Yes, for the moment he was our poilu of France, — and 
there is no one so enjoys a joke though it be on himself. 
Yet the reading of Chapuzot is only for an hour's laugh- 
ter, for a day, after all. As he was a poilu, so he is pro- 
tector of the unified history and tradition of a conserva- 
tive Latin country. Surely he turns from the reading 
of what is modern, transitory, back to his older favorites : 
to Moliere, Balzac, Hugo or Dumas. 

For though he have come from farm or city or town- 



i84 "WATER COLORS" 

ship, — from Eastern or Western Front, he is inheritor 
also of that which he protects : the singular sureness and 
conservatism of taste, that knowledge and love of the best, 
which long generations before him have produced; cul- 
ture, gout, call it what you will, a slow-growing, beauti- 
ful thing, he has it from his fathers, who have been sol- 
diers, farmers, countrymen before him. And this is why 
the brown-covered volumes of our Bibliotheque might 
have inside them the words of Corneille, of Loti or Ros- 
tand. 

.... From the dark hall and the library table I have 
seen the men wander out into the spring sunshine with 
their books to lie in the green grass among multi-colored 
wild flowers, and to discover in the pages before them 
simple things yet magical, — words bom of the blood and 
spirit of their race, even as they are children of that sweet, 
warm soil on which they lay. 

In fancy, each was led away to some state old but 
easily imagined. And, as I yet picture them, invalided 
soldiers in blue, lying together there on that green bank 
among the slender, springing flowers, it is the particular 
circumstances which brought them there, today seem un- 
real, or relatively insignificant, — an accidental page, a 
sketch inserted in the sane, sure History of Race and 
Thought. 



